Member-only story
The Neighbor Upstairs
Our next encounter
I got up with an insufferable ache in my temples.
Thanks wine. I rubbed my head. Or perhaps it was the tequila shots to blame. But I knew deep down, in the words of Jimmy Buffett, “It’s my own damn fault.”
Time to take out the trash. I stretched and dragged myself from bed. All I could think about was an omelet, preferably loaded with spices and perhaps a side of kielbasa. I knew this fantasy would have to wait. I went to the kitchen, finding the counter sticky and covered in crumbs, business cards, old napkins, forks, rags and a slimy substance I could not identify. The sink was loaded with dishes and the trash almost spilled over the top.
I began a vigorous wipe down of the counter, wiping away last night’s grime. I wrestled the heavy trash bag out and twisted the ties tight. I grabbed a sweater, my boots and pulled a black winter cap over my head.
In the supply closet, I found my trusty hammer. I grabbed the tool, then the garbage bag and headed out into the -2-degree weather. It was still early, no sign of anyone yet. The morning sun glimmered on the six-inch pile of snow. Beginning my trudge, within a few steps, the snow toppled into my unlaced boots, my bare hands were already aching from the cold.
Finally reaching the side of the building, I chose the nearest green bin. Gripping my hammer, I swung hard at the frozen lid. A heavy dusting came cascading around my deep footfalls. Two more hard hits and the lid cracked open. The can is filled to the top. I shook my head in frustration.
“Fuck it.” I swung the bag over my shoulder, the bag hitting the top of the pile. I turned and hurried up the walk. Trailing behind my boot prints, I noticed a trail of red stained snow leading back up to my door.
Must have been a leak in the bag. I thought back to the spaghetti dinner from a week ago. The door next to mine opened, the neighbor lady upstairs greeted me with a straight face. Her eyes darted from mine to the ground, then back to me. I offered a warm smile, giving a wave with my hammer before heading inside.
She hasn’t knocked on my door for any reason since. Not even for a cup of flour.
