Quiet. (c) copyright 2003 Trash Diva
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I've lived in this apartment for a couple of years. I see my neighbors come and go, but I don't have much to say to them. I guess most apartment dwellers are like that.
It's an older building, no elevator, but I have a nice view of the picturesque street, so the walk up is okay.
I don't talk to people much. It's probably why I don't have more boyfriends. Most days I'd rather read a good book than have to deal with another person. My last boyfriend, Max, was always around, and it made me a little crazy. Even when he was leaving me to my books, he made so much noise that I couldn't concentrate and I couldn't escape. Right in the middle of a good sword fight, or a great seduction scene, there'd be a yell as his team scored a goal, or curses for an unfavorable call.
That relationship ended badly. I ended up throwing him out after he invited three friends to my house to watch the Superbowl. I spent the entire time hiding in my room. It was hellish. When the game was over, I asked him to take all his stuff with him.
"Wha? Why?"
"I just can't take it, Max. You're just too much. Sometimes you are fun, but most of the time, you're just too loud, too intrusive. You make me uncomfortable."
"You seem to like me sometimes."
"Less and less, Max. Let's just end it before it gets really stupid, okay?"
"You seem to like me in bed," he said, trying to be the slightest bit suggestive. It was the last straw.
"In bed? When's the last time we were in bed together, Max? How about right around the start of the football season?"
"Well, I'd be happy to..."
"But I wouldn't. Go, Max, go now."
He grabbed his things, including his stupid giant TV, and left me. I cried for a half hour, but felt far better than I had in months.
But this left me with a void. I may prefer to be alone a lot, but a girl likes a companion, at least some of the time.
Then a new neighbor moved in. My apartment is at the end of a hallway. It's pretty big. I make good money as a corporate librarian, so I can afford a pretty nice place. More room for books.
Anyway, the apartment next to mine faces ninety degrees away from mine. I can just see its door from my peephole. I watched him move in.
Maybe I've read too many spy novels, but the man has an odd collection of stuff. I saw very little furniture go in. A bed, a kitchen table, a couple of chairs. A couple of unmarked boxes. A couple of cases that made me think of guns. A laptop computer. That was it.
He himself was as spartan as his apartment must have been. Perhaps six feet tall, short dark hair, dark eyes. Dark slacks, and a blue windbreaker. A button down shirt in light blue. No jewelry, no watch. Mr. Average. But something about the way he carried himself was striking.
The first time I got a good look at him was a few days later. I was coming home from work. He was sitting on the front steps with his computer, dressed in shorts and a red t-shirt. No logos. As I walked up the street, he closed it and stood up, stretching.
When I turned to go up the steps, he smiled.
We both pulled our keys out at the same time. He smiled when he saw me note that.
I checked my mail, temporarily blocking the way up the stairs, but he waited patiently. He then followed me up the steps. If I hadn't know he lived next to me, I'd have been a little creeped out.
The name on his mailbox was Jones. Just Jones. I found that sort of interesting. I may have been attributing more to him than was justified, but I get my fun where I can.
I looked at him as I struggled with my lock. He looked concerned for a second, but I got it, and he smiled, and went into his own apartment.
He looks pretty good in person, better than through a peephole. Strong but not over built. Graceful. I'd guess he was mid thirties.
I saw him any number of times after that. He was often on the steps of the building with his computer. The few times I saw the screen, it showed an editor of some kind. Perhaps he was a writer. Other times, it was a solitaire game, and once in a while, some sort of design program, I think for electronics.
One weekend I decided it was too nice to spend indoors, so I did what I usually do on those occasions, which is go down to the little cafe down the street and drink coffee and read. Except this time, I couldn't stay there, because their kitchen caught on fire. I grabbed my paper cup of fine Costa Rican brew and went back home.
He was sitting on the steps. For whatever reason, I decided to sit down there too, and continue my reading.
I sat on the other side, leaving room for people to get up the stairs. It was wide enough that someone could move a refrigerator between us, and we wouldn't even have to lean away.
After a half an hour, I decided that my coffee was too cold, and the steps too hard, so I got up. He closed his computer and followed me up the stairs.
As I fumbled with my door, he stood by, opening his. Mine was getting worse, I needed to call the superintendent about it. After a few minutes of struggle, I backed away in frustration.
He looked at me, and held his hands out for the keys. For some reason I didn't hesitate to hand them over.
He inserted the key into the lock, felt around for a few seconds, and then opened it.
He smiled, and handed me my keys, touching my shoulder at the same time.
"Thank you," I said.
He shrugged and went into his own apartment. I went inside.
