Door to Door

She knocked on my door.  Just now.  Her door faces my door.  It’s three, maybe four footsteps away.  Maybe four and a half.  Spitting distance.  That’s it, her door is within spitting distance of my door.  When I heard her knock, I got up, took a step, maybe two, I don’t remember, and I peeped through my peephole.  I wasn’t expecting a knock.  I’m never expecting a knock.  But this lovely young woman had knocked on my door.  What luck!  I’m sure I never would’ve knocked on her door.  If a fire broke out, maybe then, I would, but otherwise, I’d feel too creepy about it.  

So she knocked, and I peeped, and in clumsy haste I unlocked and pulled open my door and I say “in clumsy haste” because perhaps I was about to discover that there is a God after all--or, as the case may be, for me, a Goddess, after all.  That’s right, I wouldn’t open the door for just any old deity, certainly not for Jesus or Muhammad (deadbeat deities, if you ask me), but if either had a pretty, young sister, you betcha I would.  I take that back, I’d open the door for Zeus and his crew.  Unlike any of the demiurges who are currently in fashion, those Greek Gods knew how to party.

Aside from what I’ve seen through my peephole, I don’t know a thing about her.  Whilst peeping, I once saw her come home late with a guy.  Another time I saw her come home late with a gal.  She never brought the guy home again.  At least, not whilst I was peeping.  The gal, she’s brought her home a few times.  Maybe they’re just friends.  Maybe, when she’s with the guy--assuming that she’s still with the guy--she stays at his place.  And maybe they’re just friends.  I’ve never heard any noises.  Nothing’s very thick in this building.  Either way, his place is probably bigger.  Any place is probably bigger. 

“Studio apartments” or “efficiency units” are what they call these.  They’re really walk-in closets with a toilet, a shower and a kitchenette.  Upscale prison cells for most of a barista’s paycheck is what they are.  But they’re cheap.  And so am I.

So she knocked and I opened and she stared at me…  for a moment.  Make it for a few moments.  Nah, make it for a few pregnant moments.  Finally, I said, “Yeah?”  And to my “Yeah?” she said, “The girl who used to live here must’ve moved.”  And, to that, after letting another moment slip by, I said, “Yeah.”

She took another moment--nah, let’s call it a full thirty-seven seconds--to wrap her mind around it.  I didn’t want to disturb her slow absorption of the shocking revelation that a male now inhabited the small space previously rented out to a female--someone who was once her friend, someone who was possibly her part-time lover, or, someone with whom she felt comfortable mooching laundry money off of.

She had nothing more to say, so she about-faced and marched--nah, scurried--back into her apartment.  There’s a big bed in there.  Nothing else would fit.  Just the bed.  Looks comfy.  Looks like the kind you’d like to jump up and down upon.     

She didn’t offer her name.  I didn’t offer mine.  I never do.  When anyone wants to know, they ask.  And if I want to know her name, all I’ve got to do is knock on her door.  But that would be creepy.  Knock, knock.  “Excuse me, what’s your name?  Ingrid?  Thanks.  Why?  No reason.  Or, let’s just say:  For future reference.”  Nah.  I’d have to have a real good reason to knock on her door just for her name.  I might say,  “For my blog.”  Again, creepy.  I could lie; make up some crazy story, but I wouldn’t want to start a relationship on a lie.      

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