Page 39 of Bittersweet

“Are you a fucking child?” I ask, nice Lola melting away.

“No, I’m a man. A man who does whatever the fuck I want. I’ve been living here for three years and never had an issue. You’ve been here for two weeks and it’s been nothing but.”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

“I’ve been quiet in the mornings before I open up. I’ve been working late to get things done at night.I’ve been a kind neighbor.But my mornings are early and I need to be asleep by eleven.”

“And when you open, it’s as loud as fuck circus.”

“It’s my business!”

“It’s loud.”

“How is that my fault?!”

“The same way my playing music late is my fault.”

“So you agree, you’re at fault.”

“No.”

“Jesus, you’re such an ass!”

“Then leave.” I blink.

“Excuse me?”

“Then leave.”

“Is that your plan? To drive me out?”

“It’s not, but it sounds like a good one.”

I think . . . I think I hate this man.

I don’t know what on earth I did to deserve his hatred toward me, but I hate him right back.

It’s then I decide that I’m not backing down. I’m not leaving.

He can blast his music, and he can be an ass.

Fine.

Because I was raised by a woman who took no shit and by a man who taught me to play the game until you win.

And I’ll be damned if I don’t win. I’ll endure sleepless nights and a shitty neighbor, but I’ll win in the end.

“Fine. Have your music,” I say, turning my back to him and heading back to my apartment. I grab the key I brought out with me, putting it into the lock and turning when I hear his voice. I look over my shoulder and see he’s still there, leaning in the doorway, but now he has a small smile on his stupid fucking face.

“What?”

“Sweet dreams, babe.”

And with that, I flip him off, go into my apartment and slam the door behind me. The music returns to its previous volume, rattling my brain as I put headphones in my own ears to try and drown out the noise.

And when I finally start to drift off despite the pounding music, I’m comforted by the fact that before I lie down, I set an alarm for five a.m.

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