Chemistry

It was barely six. Memorial Drive was almost empty. She followed her usual route along the Charles, enjoying the feeling of her muscles stretching, flexing, pushing for more speed. The fresh morning air filled her lungs. It was still cool, but she was sweating by the time she finished her three mile circuit and turned to head home.

Her mind was blissfully empty from her exertion. At the corner of Howard, though, a block from her building, memory rushed back. The recalcitrant problem of protein 43-7(b). The strobe lights and raucous music. The house must be on this street, back to back with the buildings on her own. Maybe she should give her impolite neighbor a taste of his own medicine.

Kit slowed to a walk and turned onto the narrow road. It was lined with the three-story, wood framed houses that used to be the norm before this part of town turned upmarket. Most had been renovated, their weathered shingles replaced with aluminum or vinyl in tasteful shades of white, gray, or cream. In the middle of the block, however, stood a house with its original wooden siding, painted a lurid purple.
That had to be it. Paisley draperies hung in the picture window. Over the door, there was a sign, aqua and yellow, in a font so distorted that it looked as though the letters were melting. Frank's Folly, it read, and underneath, Head Shop.

Anger made Kit bold. She climbed the steps and pressed the doorbell, twice. A parrot squawked behind the door. Otherwise, there was no effect. She rang the bell again, and then, impatient, banged on the door with her fist.

The door swung open. A sweet, smoky aroma wafted out. Kit found herself staring into a pair of amazingly blue eyes that blinked and squinted against the morning sunlight.

He looked at her long time without speaking. In his eyes, she saw curiosity and amusement. She was acutely aware of her bare midriff and the sweaty shorts clinging to her butt. As for the owner of the establishment, he wore a tie-dyed T-shirt that only partly hid a hairy belly and faded cutoffs so loose and tattered that she couldn't avoid catching glimpses of his heavy balls.

The man's steady gaze drove out all her angry words. He smiled, kindly, apparently not caring that he had been awakened at such an early hour.

"Good morning. Can I help you?" He swept his eyes over her skimpy clothing and his smile broadened. "Normally, I'm closed on Sunday—day of rest and all that. But if there's something you urgently need, I'd be happy to see what I can do."

"I—um—you—that was quite a party you had last night!"

"Party?"

"Music, lights—up on your third floor. You could hear it all over the neighborhood!"

A stricken look passed over his bearded face. "Oh, sorry! I was just relaxing by myself, just spacing out after a long week. Did I disturb you?"

"As a matter of fact, you did. I was trying to work."

He grinned, looking suddenly much younger than the gray strands in his beard suggested. "A pretty woman like you shouldn't be working on a Saturday night! But really, I am sorry. I didn't realize that anyone could hear me."

"They probably could hear you over at City Hall." Kit's sense of righteous indignation returned. How could the old guy be so oblivious?
"Please, accept my apologies. It won't happen again." He gave her another once over. She felt a blush creeping across her cheeks.

"Won't you come in for a cup of coffee? I just made some fresh."

Despite his bleary look, she hadn't gotten him out of bed after all.
"No, that's okay. I just wanted to let you know about the problem."

"Please, come in. Let me make amends. I've got some excellent Columbian."