Joe Skaramanga

The Giraffe of Ipanema

"Jesus Murphy," Lisa muttered plunging her fork into her fruit bowl, "He's doing it again." I didn't need to look. The hairs on the back of my neck had stiffened the second I heard the neighbor's sliding door. The routine had become familiar: the rustle of curtains, the flapping of flip-flops on concrete, and then – the inevitable slow, but deliberate swiveling of an atavistic head.