Page 1 of Debugging Love

Chapter 1

Danni

My neighbor left his trash by the door again. We share the same second-floor landing, open to the outdoors, railings on both sides, a roof stretching between our buildings. A critter that sniffs around his door will sniff around mine.

Critter makes it sound cute, like a teddy bear or a unicorn. There’s nothing cute about hantavirus, the plague, or typhus. Also, if I see a cockroach, Iwillvomit.

My apartment is nothing special on the outside, just one of several identical, white-sided buildings toward the back of Wild Oaks complex, which sits next to a marsh populated with snowy egrets, great blue herons, and the occasional alligator. Inside it’s my special hiding place, my haven, abundantly stocked with books, blankets, and coffee.

However, I don’t love my new neighbor—the one who leaves his trash by his door and blasts country music so loud that it penetrates my bedroom wall, the thud of the bass drum like tiny boxing gloves against my eyeballs as I’m trying to fall asleep.

The trash bags are worse than the music. He leaves them by his door for days. This one wasn’t here when I returned from my morning run which means it’s not infested yet. Which means if I take it to the dumpster, I won’t have rodents knocking on my door or leaving their droppings on my Hello Kitty welcome mat tonight.

I heave out a sigh. Just this once I’ll do his dirty work. Afterward, I’ll tape a note to his door telling him I’m not his janitor and if he keeps smelling up our breezeway with his rotten food, I’m calling the property manager.

With a huff, I grab the bag and lug it to the stairs. The steps are wood, the dark stain worn away by shoes and sand and rain. They’re also wide, so if I fall it won’t hurt as much. As an Indiana girl, I’ve walked up and down my share of icy stairways, enough times to consider how I might slip to my death on these things.

I clutch the railing with one hand, the trash bag in the other, all well and good until my neighbor’s trash bag splits open. My horrified eyes watch the deluge of refuge as it tumbles around me. I fly down the stairs to keep an empty spaghetti jar from shattering on the sidewalk.

If only Icouldfly, I think, as my feet slip out from under me. I say hello to my Boho Beach Hut beaded sandals before slamming down on my right butt cheek.

I’ve never squeezed a human out of my pelvis but I’m pretty sure my gluteus maximus is contracting in preparation for childbirth. The pain knocks the breath out of me. I lie back, eyes squeezed shut and gasping for what feels like five minutes before the fire in my rear starts to recede. (No diarrhea jokes. This is serious.)

I literally busted my butt because my neighbor can’t clean up after himself. He owes me worker’s compensation. And money for laundry because something wet is oozing through my trousers. Not a good look for my date with Chance.

I sit gingerly and grab the handrail. As I pull myself to my feet, a wiry-haired guy walks by, eyeballing my mess. His squatty hound dog lifts its nose and tests the various odors I accidentally unleashed. The guy gives me a confused brow furrow and keeps on walking.

“Thanks. I got it under control,” I mumble to his back.

I limp to my apartment, grab a new trash bag, and commence my cleanup effort.

You can learn a lot about a man by his trash. My neighbor likes Coke Zeroa lot. He also likes melons. Various types of melons. Watermelon, honeydew, cantaloupe. His breakfast of choice is Sausage, Egg, & Cheese Hot Pockets, and he loves fresh fish. Also. Bananas. Specifically, brown, slimy bananapeels. Lots of them.

After a quick OSHA investigation, I zero in on a peel curiously close to where my foot slipped. I’m sure the gooey skin is what sent me airborne before gravity sucked me back into its claws.

I pinch the offending peel with the acrylic nails I just pressed on an hour ago and deposit it into my trash bag. The scores of chewing gum wrappers—Orbit Sweet Mint—are my next target, all full of gum, already chewed.

A minute later, I drop the final gum wrapper into my trash bag, knot the drawstrings, and round the corner to toss the bag into the dumpster.See how easy that was?The throwing away part. Not the blunt force trauma to my backside.

En route to my Hello Kitty-themed bedroom, I glance at the clock. I have forty minutes to make it downtown. Still doable if I don’t spend another hour deciding what to wear.

I grab a pair of black capris from my closet. Good enough. As I feed my foot through, a gluteal spasm knocks me off-balance, and I land on my face. Now I need to retouch my makeup. And wash my white comforter.

I’m in the bathroom combing my eyebrows when my phone buzzes. I flip it over so I can read the text while finessing each tiny hair.

What’s he like?

It’s my best friend, Morgan. We met eight months ago at JetAero where we both work. She’s blonde to my brunette. Outgoing to my I-wish-I-was-home-reading-a-book.

I haven’t left yet, I respond.

She shoots me a shocked emoji.It’s quarter after five on a Saturday. Downtown parking is going to be rough.

Which is why you should go instead of me, I respond.You live closer.

Uh... No. I don’t do dating apps.

Neither do I, so why is this happening?

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