By Mary Elizabeth

It was a Saturday night in late September, and my next-door neighbors were holding their third party in as many weeks. My neighbors were three young men: Charlie, Stan, and Jeff. In the six months that we lived next to each other, I met each of them three times. Each time I ran into one of them, they introduced themselves as if it were the first time we had met.

Every time the neighbors had a party, I spent far more time than I would like to admit peeking through my warped nylon blinds trying to catch a glimpse of their backyard. If I looked from the right angle, I could peer through my second-floor bedroom window and watch the outdoor portion of the parties.

On this night, cheap Christmas lights blinking in an indiscernible pattern were strung around the fence enclosing the small lawn. A dozen glittering bodies swayed together to a deep bass beat. Forgotten red solo cups littered the ground, oozing stale beer. In one corner of the small backyard, Jeff stood unsteadily on his feet rambling to a woman in the lawn chair next to him. The woman wordlessly nodded and scrolled on her phone. A symphony of intoxicated voices rose into a dull roar that would play into the early morning.

Longing stretched out of my chest like an invisible third arm, reaching through my window towards the backyard below. I thought I had amputated this embarrassing yearning years ago. Maybe I was feeling a phantom limb.

I looked away from the scene unfolding in the backyard and fell backward onto my bed in a huff. The mattress sighed under the sudden surprise of my weight. I stared up at the ceiling and wondered how many more times I needed to meet my neighbors until I was invited to their parties.

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Mary Elizabeth (she/her) is a social services professional and writer based in Washington, DC. She works with women experiencing homelessness, the elderly, and domestic violence survivors. She is inspired by complex inner worlds, urban environments, and her incredible clients.