Page 3 of Like You Want It
A part of me knows that I might be pushing this a little bit too far. I’m now a half-step pastlet’s piss off the new dickweed neighbor,and firmly entrenched inmaybe this situation isn’t entirely safe.
Thesituationbeing something every women’s magazine and website and police officer encourages younotto get into. I’m alone, in my apartment, without a phone in my hand or any real way to protect myself, and a stranger glaring at me in anger.
Gratifying anger? Sure. One hundred percent. But still, very real.
And while the door might still be open, creating the illusion that I can get away whenever I so choose, this guy looks like he could leap across the room to grab me in half the time it would take me to get to the door.
Well, those magazines with their safety tips can fuck right the hell off, becausethischicka has had it up tohereand isn’t going to take it sitting down.
“Ohhhhhhh,” I say, allowing the faux light of understanding to cross my expression. “So you’re saying it’s ridiculously easy to hear through your floor and my ceiling when someone’s being really loud?” I rest my hands on my hips and give him my bestwell golly gee. “I didn’t know that at all. I mean, I’ve never heard a peep coming from theincredibly quietapartment upstairs.”
There’s a lull of silence between us where I anticipate that he’ll spring right into action. There will be an apology. Some groveling maybe. Or an offer of a bottle of wine for my troubles.
I like that version best, because my wine holder is looking a little bare as I wait for my next paycheck.
But that’s not at all what happens. Instead, I glare. He glares. I glare some more.
There is entirely too much glaring going on. It’s like the sun in a city with glass buildings. There’s no escaping it as it blasts into your eyes and gives you a surprise sunburn.
And to make the situation even more irritating, he continues to stand there silently. Not a single word. He just stands there as I clench my fists and grind my jaw, willing him to say something.Anything.
When I can’t take it any longer, I launch my well thought out frustration at his perfect, stupid face.
“This is when you’re supposed to infer that I was kept up until nearly four o’clock in the morning by your raging party, and your loud guests stomping up and down the stairs, andsomeone’sbed frame banging against the wall, over and over and over again, so loudly that I could hear it thumping through the floor.Louderthanthe music.”
I step a few steps closer to him and point a finger at my incredibly tired and disheveled appearance.
“Do you see these bags under my eyes?Do you?These are going to be nearly impossible to cover, even though my concealer providesexcellentcoverage. It took me years to find a concealer that works so well, and your little antics are going to prove it ineffective today. I work at a coffee shop and I’m supposed to beperkyand upbeat and happy.And I normally am!” I add on a shout, my arms flinging out to my sides in exasperation.
“I am the most positive, optimistic, annoyingly happy person that I know. Just ask about every person I’ve ever met, and they’ll probably agree with me. But you have managed to ruin my persistent state of cheer and bliss with one undeniably loud and incredibly inconsiderate party.” I huff and put my hands on my hips, trying to look much more forbidding than my five-foot frame typically allows. “I know you just moved in, and I don’t want you to think you live above a crazy lady, butseriously!In what world is something like that acceptable? Ever? Besides at a frat house.” I cross my arms. “At least, that’s my guess based onNeighbors. AndOld School.”
There’s another pause.
And my continued expectation that he’s going to finally reply to what I’ve said is – again – left flapping in the wind.
Is this guy seriously not going to say anything? Like, what kind of person just barges into someone else’s apartment after yelling at them and then says nothing?
I drop my arms andthistime, show him legitimate confusion. “Are you seriously just going to stand there mute? The least you can do is respond after you barge into my apartment and yell at me.”
“First of all,” he finally says, his deep voice rolling softly through the room on a wave. “The only reason Ibargedin here is because you had your music set so loud, I’m surprised I didn’t pop an eardrum.”
I roll my eyes. “Well that’s a little dramatic don’t you thi…”
“Second of all,” he adds, interrupting me, “never in my life have I seen someone so irritating unconvincingly declare that they are normally a perky, happy, likeable person.”
“Heyyyyy.” My brow dips down and my hands return to my hips. “I never said I was likeable. I just assume it’s heavily implied. And that was rude for you to…”
“I also think,” he interrupts again, and I grind my teeth together, “it’s important to remember that just because you live here, alone, with your cat, doesn’t mean other people aren’t allowed to actually have a fun night.”
My mouth drops open. “Are you implying that I’m some sort of crazy cat lady? Because I will have you know…”
“Lastly…”
“Nope!” I shout out, my hands flying up and forming a T. “Nope, nope, nope. I call timeout. You’ve interrupted me twice already. I absolutely refuse to let you do it again.”
There’s a lull of silence, and he just looks at me with a flat, completely disinterested expression.
“Lastly,” he repeats, and I take a deep breath to calm myself, though I’m almost certain that my flaring nostrils give away the fact that I am the exact opposite of calm. “I am not your neighbor.”
