She can only fuck to Jurassic Park. The whole building knows.
On Friday nights we hear her throaty laugh. We hear glass chime against glass and we hear chairs scrape the hardwood and we hear nothing and we hear the low note of a single word and we hear a dull waltz of socked feet. We hear her force her DVD player shut. A mattress sighs. John Williams pours down the stairwell.
Saturdays we see her at the mailboxes or on our way to brunch, or we stand for three minutes together in the elevator, or downstairs our clothes just came off the machine she’s now loading. We hold our children close, or our pugs or our laundry baskets. We avoid eye contact. She hums three beats and the insides of our palms throb to the rest. Our minds skip to the part where the paleontologist, in silent reverence, holds up a dinosaur egg. It hatches a hunger so sharp we want to rush back home and ravish our partners. We drop our keys. Her hand brushes ours as she bends down to help us. We look away.
One night the grunting stops before the T-Rex has a chance to break out of the facility. Thick soles thump back to the living room. Her voice trickles through the air vents. It is small and pleading. A door slams. We rush to the hallway. He is fumbling with his laces. She is clawing at his dark grey overcoat.
Weirdo, he says.
She sheds a reptilian tear. It chills our blood and our skin thickens. Our hiss chases him back in. We stalk through her kitchen like velociraptors. He is a bird in our claws. He is brittle like a sand castle. He is gutted like his briefcase.
She lets out a deep roar. We flock to her bed. We force her DVD player shut. John Williams pours down the stairwell.