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His cries of pain are music to me and my rage lessens. The pale pink cotton falls to the ground and, as he tries to wrest away, his sneakered foot nearly crushes it. I hold onto his wrist with one hand and reach down and pluck the panties off the ground and stuff them into my jeans pocket.
    "What the fuck do you think you are doing?" I ask him through gritted teeth.
    His teeth chatter and he responds with barely legible words. "Laundry. Doing laundry."
    He is a lecher and a liar. I squeeze his broken wrist tighter and he cries out again. Using my other hand on the collar of his t-shirt, I twist and pull him close. "These are not your clothes, you filthy motherfucker." I am tired of my girl being surrounded by the dregs of humanity. Mr. Brown living next door with his perversions. This little man trying to steal her panties. How many other women has he done this to? I should kill him right now. My hand releases his t-shirt to grasp his throat. I could squeeze the life out of him.
    But before I can say another word, I hear footsteps. It's her. Somehow I know it is her. The thief and I exchange glances. I push the
dolboeb
, the fuckhead, away and shove her clothing back into the washing machine. I see a dark corner and a bulb. I bat the hot bulb with my hand and break it, feeling the burn immediately. This side of the laundry room is plunged into darkness. It is the perfect place to stash this man. I push him into the corner. "You make noise, you so much as breathe too loudly, and it will be the last sound you make."
    He nods his comprehension, cradling his broken wrist. Grabbing the one chair in the laundry room, I pull it in front of him and situate it so that I am partially lit but that he would have to push past me to get out.
    I do not have a book or magazine, so I pull out my phone and pretend to be checking the Internet. I'm holding my own breath because this will be the closest I have ever been to her. My hands shake with anticipation. I clench my phone harder to keep her from seeing how she affects me. I do not want to frighten her, so I say, "Allo," as soon as she turns the corner.
    This is still unexpected and she jumps, placing her delicate hand to her chest. She has no idea that the action draws emphasis to her beautiful breasts. I want to see those breasts exposed to my gaze. I want to touch them with my hands. I want to rub my face between their valley, thumb her nipples, and lick every round inch of those swells. My cock hardens at the thought. I'm grateful that I am leaning over so she can't see the evidence of my arousal. Perhaps it is better that I've never been this close. I'd come at the first touch of her hand on my bare flesh.
    "I-I didn't see you there," she stammers sweetly. Her voice is clear and melodic. I'm completely entranced.
    "
Nyet
, it is my fault. I apologize for startling you." Is it uncouth to remain seated? With fuckhead behind me, I feel like I cannot stand up. Him and my aching cock.
    "That's okay." She smiles at me, and I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from groaning. "I've just moved in, so I don't know everyone in the building. I'm Daisy Miller."
    Daisy. I roll her name over my tongue. It fits her, like her smooth soft hands and her clear complexion. The women in the Ukraine, some of them would wash their faces in goat’s milk to keep a perfect countenance. I wonder if this is what she does. Her skin is creamy but golden as if she lives outdoors instead of within the stained brick walls of this dirty rundown apartment complex. Her eyelashes are thick and rest like lace curtains against the curve of her cheek.
    "Daisy Miller," I repeat. "Like Henry James?" The Daisy Miller of Henry James’s story is light and intangible, all beauty and no substance. It does not match this woman.
    She frowns at me, clearly not following my conversation attempt. "Beg pardon?"
    "Is nothing."
    She holds out her hand and offers it to me. I want to get up and touch it but I cannot. Instead, I slide the