There’s that moment of recognition when you know someone you don’t. When you realize the woman on the subway looks uncannily like you plus twenty-five years, or you meet someone’s eyes and they just get it. Most people never acknowledge these moments, at least not to those with whom they are experienced.
So I never said anything when I stepped outside my apartment door as the guy was coming in. He looked at me like he recognized me, but hadn’t seen me in years. He pulled out his keys and stopped at the first apartment from the entrance. That’s when I stopped to visually take him in, too, and to plant myself in my doorway instead of risking death by embarrassment.
It was my neighbor. I’d never seen him until then, but we’re acquainted - too well for people who have never spoken and who don’t intend to. When his phone vibrates on the other side of the wall, I hear it. Of course, he hears everything coming from my side of the wall, too, blaring music being the most benign.
There are things I know about him, too. It helps that a window in my living area looks into one in his kitchen. I know he lines his cereal boxes on the sill, and he doesn’t have any refrigerator magnets. He keeps the kitchen light on into the wee hours. He doesn’t go anywhere at night; no one comes over.
One time I was walking to my dresser after a shower, and I think he may have seen me naked. I jumped and ran back into the bathroom for a towel. I’ll never know if he saw me or not. This is why I didn’t walk by him when I had the chance and why I so hurriedly check my mailbox outside his door.
A few days ago, I noticed flowers on his window sill. The cereal was gone. The kitchen light shone until late became early, but different voices wafted one unit to another. I suspect he’s gone and will have to be replaced. I kind of wish he’d said goodbye.
