Gravel-laced whir of a coffee grinder and footsteps overhead. She is awake. I imagine her messy-haired and half asleep, stretching good morning in her robe. The robe is lavander with small plum blossoms dotted over it’s silken surface. This I know because I’ve seen it when she’s trotted down to retrieve her mail as her coffee brews.
I appreciate that she grinds her own beans. I do the same. Any self-respecting coffee lover does. At least, I assume she loves coffee because I know she has it special delivered and yes, she grinds her own beans every morning. So, she must love good coffee.
Her light footsteps overhead are comforting as I eat my breakfast. I wonder what she eats, if she eats breakfast. Perhaps she settles in with fresh fruit and yogurt. Maybe it’s eggs and toast, just like me. I can hear the scraping of her chair and the soft creak of aged wood, perhaps rattan. I can’t be sure, but we’ve spent our mornings together so often in just this manner. I would cook her whatever her heart fancies if she asked.
Her soft footfalls lead to the bedroom. She is barefoot, or at least wearing only slippers. She moves like a cat on sneaky feet. The shower above mine spring to life and the music starts, Pharrell - Happy pours through the vents. She’s in a good mood. This makes me smile.
I start my shower, her bathwater draining into my pipes. We are, in essence, in the shower together. I allow my mind to wander, picturing her silhouette through the steam, her hand outreached for mine. I would take that hand and never let go.
She ends her shower before I do, but she takes longer to dress than I do. The music is softer now. I can’t quite make out the tune, but the driving bass furthers my theory that she’s happy.
I hear her voice over the din, she’s chatting with someone on the phone. Her giggles form silver bells over the din and ring in my heart. What could I say to make her laugh like that?
The clothes I laid out the night before wait for me, folded neatly over my chair. Today is special. Today, I dress for success. Today, I will charm her off her feet.
Hello, darlin’, I’m the handsome downstairs neighbor you’ve been wondering about.
Confidence is the key. I wear my favorite tailored shirt. Well, it’s the only tailored shirt I own. My father taught me all a man needs is one good dress shirt and a good barber.
Ruffling gel through my hair, I inspect my reflection. Rafael outdid himself the last time I went for a cut. Lined up and perfectly in place, my hair resembles a GQ ad if I do say so myself. After slipping into well-worn jeans and dabbing on a bit of cologne, I am ready. As ready as I’ll ever be.
My palms sweat so I dust them with a bit of talc. Another tip from Dad. You only get one shot at a good first impression and a man never has sweaty palms.
Standing by my door, I am ready. Today will be the day.
What will I say? Well, I’ve known that from the day she moved in that I’d fallen for her. I am thunderstruck by her beauty and grace. I know the depth of her mind because I hear all the documentaries she watches at night when she can’t sleep. I know she isn’t the run of the mill kittens and puppies kind of girl because her Facebook posts are funny and pithy. Never corny or smarmy. She has too much taste for that.
She loves her family because they all come over for Sunday dinner every third Sunday of the month and she knows how to cook because the scents from that dinner are always inticing.
She laughs with abandon and cries with equal measure. She is complicated and simple and passionate and kind and honest---all rolled into one beautiful soul.
“You dropped this,” she said, handing me my credit card. It’d slipped out of my pocket. She’d been behind me going up the stairs, a fact I was doing my best to ignore.
“Oh, uh, thanks. Wouldn’t want to lose that.”
“No.” She grinned, shaking her head, chocolate brown locks licking her cheeks. “That would be bad.”
Of course my dumb ass was struck mute.
But not today. Not today.
The door above me slams, not with malice, but with the certainty that it is closed. Keys jangle as she locks it. My heart pounds into my throat as I prepare to open my door. All I have to do is open my door. Open the door. I can hear her heels clicking on the stairs.
Open the door!
A moment’s hesitation too long, I open the door to see the red wool of her coat disappear out the building’s front door. Her car rumbles to life and I’ve missed my chance yet again. Closing my eyes, I take in the scent of her perfume. It is floral without being acrid and it warms my chest even though it is the smell of regret and could-have-beens.
Head hung low, I shuffle into my flat and take a cleansing breath. The door clicks closed behind me. I have my day’s work to get to. Putting her from my mind is a must. I set my jaw, trying to ignore the knot in my stomach. There is always tonight. Tonight will be my time.
*****
Powering down my laptop, I prepare for Bold Introduction 2.0. I pour two fingers of Scotch in a tumbler and roll it between my hands before downing it. Liquid courage was definitely what I was missing this morning.
The front door of the building wooshes open and closed. The cacophony of children stampeding upstairs after a long day of school distracts me. It’s way too early to be her, but my stomach lurches at the sound. This is a dress-rehearsal for showtime.
About an hour later, after I’ve double checked my hair and downed another Scotch and soda, the building door scrapes open. Again too early and the fact that it doesn’t immediately hiss shut tells me it’s not her. The clank of the mailboxes one floor down confirms my suspicions. It’s the mailcarrier. He climbs to my landing and knocks on my door.
I greet him with a smile. “What’s up, Fred?”
“It’s a heavy one today. Proofs?”
“An ARC. Yeah. Thanks.” I sign for the hefty package.
Fred sizes me up. “All dressed up and no place to go?”
“Today’s the day, Fred. Today is the day.”
He shakes his head. “Youth is waste on the young.”
I laugh as I close my door, but he isn’t wrong. Fred could’ve been a looker in his youth. He wouldn’t have had any trouble talking to the goddess on the third floor, of that I was sure.
Settling on the sofa, I open the new book I’m supposed to review, but it’s hard to concentrate. Somehow, I force myself to hear the author’s voice and not hers.
Then comes the woosh I’ve awaited all day. I spring from the sofa, ready to make my move. But then I hear her voice. She’s on her mobile phone, heels no longer clicking, she stomps up the stairs. Her door slams, this time with real violence.
The conversation is muffled now, but loud nonetheless. Snatches of her indignance float down:
“I don’t understand--”
“Explain why--”
“That doesn’t make any sense.”
“--Can’t do that--”
“I won’t put up with this shit--”
Then, she goes silent.
Holding my breath, I wait for more, but nothing else comes. The floor resounding above tells me she’s pacing. What’s gotten her so agitated?
The gentle squeak of springs. She’s on her sofa now, probably with her feet tucked under her bottom. A protective position. I hear her cry and I wonder who’s made her cry, though I’m pretty sure it’s that punk-ass boy I’ve seen climb the stairs far too often. He has no idea what to do with a woman like her. If she were mine, I’d never make her cry. Not sobbing as she is now.
I could scale the stairs and be her white knight. A hero with a box of tissues and a shoulder built for comfort. Loneliness is state we both share and neither of us need ever be alone again. I’d tilt her chin up, eyes shining with tears. I’d kiss her and promise never to do anything to hurt her. I love her. She must know that.
But how could she. I’ve never told her. But somehow, some way, she must know. She is my morning, noon, and night. Shaking my head, I exhale. How am I supposed to tell her all of that? Now, I start to pace. The timing isn’t right. It’s just not right.
I give her some privacy. She’ll quiet in an bit and then turn on the TV. We’ll watch something about the migration of blue whales or the strange disappearance of honeybees.
Lighting a cigarette, I take a long drag. The air is a little crisp and I regret coming out with no coat. I could go back in, but then she’d hear my intrusion. She needs a little time alone.
Then, I hear them---her balcony doors. They click open and closed. She has French doors, not the sliding glass piece of shit I have. The light comes on and her gentle foot steps lead to her bistro set. She’s talking to her mother and once again feel as if I am intruding.
Looking up as I crush out a cigarette, I pause. I want to stay and find out what has her so upset, but it’s none of my business. As quietly as I can, I slip into my apartment.
The night drags on. I work through the ARC, making notes, but she is never far from my thoughts. I wait for her to come inside. Finally, I see the light extinguish from her balcony and hear her. A few ballerina steps and I know she has gone to bed. All is still.
Heading to bed myself, I imagine slipping into clean, soft, cottony sheets next to her. I roll over, the warmth of her arm draped over me and her feathery breath on my neck. This image knotting me in Gordian fashion, I undress and toss aside the useless dress shirt. Then, I retrieve it and fold it neatly over my desk chair. I’ll hang it up tomorrow. I do the same with my jeans and go to bed in my boxers and undershirt. Tucking an arm behind my head on the pillow, I sigh.
Tomorrow, I will work up the courage to talk to her. Tomorrow will be my day.
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