Page 1 of The Landlord
1
DAMIEN
Knock! Knock! Knock! Knock! Knock!
Jesus. Five times, really? Is that supposed to give me a sense of urgency? The hell.
Knock! Knock!
The persistent knocking at my door interrupts my Saturday morning ritual of fixing things that don't necessarily need fixing. What can I say? I like keeping myself busy.
Today's victim is my ancient flat-screen TV that flickers like a strobe light but still works, damn it. I refuse to give up on it and buy a new one on principle.
The delivery guy is already gone by the time I open the door, leaving behind yet another package addressed to "A. James, Apt 4B" sitting on my doormat.
I pick up the box with a sigh that's more habit than genuine frustration. Light, about shoebox size. Fourth one this week for my lovely neighbor who seems to order from online shops on adaily basis. The delivery people for this building need their eyes checked.
"Lazy bastards."
How hard is it to tell the difference between D. Finch, 4A and A. James, 4B? We're literally across the hall from each other.
"D. Finch" and "A. James" aren't even close alphabetically. My handwriting on the mailbox labels downstairs is also precise and clear—a point of pride, by the way. But somehow, packages for 4B keep landing at 4A like homing pigeons with faulty navigation systems.
Doug, my five pound terror of a chihuahua, yaps from inside my apartment, his warning bark that someone has dared approach our door.
"It's fine," I call back, carrying the package inside. "Just another misdirected delivery for Ms. James. Nothing new. Just another typical day."
The TV sits in pieces on my coffee table, circuit board exposed and looking more and more like it belongs to the trash and not worth being salvaged. The flickering would drive most people to Best Buy for a replacement, but the picture quality is still excellent. Just needs a soldering touch-up on a loose connection. Things aren't meant to be thrown away at the first sign of trouble.
That's what I live by: if something could be fixed, then it should be fixed. I am many things, but I am no quitter. Besides, I love me a good challenge.
I set the package by the door. I'll take it over once I've fixed this connection. No rush. It gives me an excuse to knock on her door later anyway.
Not that I'd admit that out loud.
Two months. That's how long it's been since Alyssa moved into 4B. Two months of pretending I don't notice when she leaves for errands or returns home. Two months of catching glimpses of her in the lobby, her arms often laden with packages of yarn in every color imaginable. Two months of watching her smile shyly when our paths cross, her cheeks turning a shade of pink that matches some of her softer yarns. Two months of convincing myself the landlord transferring from the ground floor to the fourth just to be next to her is no big deal at all. Not weird or creepy. Maybe I just wanted a better view, like the brick wall next building. Or maybe I genuinely enjoy receiving packages not meant for me.
Whatever.
Doug jumps onto the couch beside me, carrying so much attitude and tenacity within that tiny body, and eyes the package suspiciously.
"Don't even think about it," I warn, picking up my soldering iron. "It's not mine … or yours."
This TV has survived three apartments and at least five technicians who insisted I upgrade. The last one—Bryan, I think—said it reflected my "stubborn refusal to move forward." He wasn't entirely wrong, but neither the TV nor I appreciated the assessment.
I focus on the circuit board, making the delicate connection while trying not to think about the woman next door. Thewoman whose packages give me excuses to knock on her door. The woman I moved from the ground floor apartment to be near.
That particular decision wasn't my proudest moment. When the fourth-floor apartment became available two weeks after she moved in, I convinced myself that I needed to be closer to the roof access for maintenance reasons. Pure practicality.
The soldering iron slips, nearly burning my finger.
"Shit." I pull back, shaking my hand. That's what I get for being distracted, which happens more often than I care to admit. And the only reason my mind strays is her. Always her.
Doug perks his ears, then jumps off the couch. When I don't hear the tell-tale click of his nails on the hardwood, I glance over my shoulder and find him rounding the box.
Holy fucking shit.
The little traitor is at the package, sniffing around its edges.
