Wants to suggest coffee, conversation, the kind of neighborly interaction that normal people probably take for granted.
But that way lies complications I've spent years avoiding. Personal connections create obligations that visa uncertainty makes impractical. Better to maintain professional distance, avoid emotional investments that deportation might terminate without warning.
The love letters watch from their organized arrangement, silent reminders of romantic possibilities I've filed away like academic research.
"Ma chérie, comment puis-je exprimer ce que je ressens?"
French seems particularly relevant tonight. How can I express what I feel when I'm not even certain what those feelings are?
Curiosity about the woman next door who writes for a living, maintains deadline schedules, extends courtesy to inconsiderate neighbors?
Hope that my apology might lead to further communication, perhaps even friendship?
Fear that any personal connection will prove temporary, another relationship truncated by immigration complications?
All of the above, probably.
I close the French notebook and prepare for bed, but sleep feels unlikely. Too many questions, too many possibilities branching from simple note exchange.
Tomorrow brings Dr. Westfield's mysterious consultation about acoustic phenomena. Perhaps that will provide sufficient distraction from neighborhood complications.
But as I arrange tomorrow's clothes and review university correspondence, part of my attention remains focused on the wall between 4C and 4B.
Listening for sounds that might indicate M. Ruiz's response to my apology.
Hoping for forgiveness.
Fearing for more than that.
CHAPTER 3
MAYA
MIDNIGHT. FUCKING MIDNIGHT.
The bass thrums through my floorboards again, rattling the coffee mug I'm clutching like a weapon. Three hours past his supposed bedtime, and this guy's still at it.
His note sits crumpled on my desk. All that polite, formal bullshit aboutcultural understandingandlinguistic research. Right. Because Shakespeare at midnight counts as academic work.
"To be or not to be—" The voice booms through the wall, followed by that signature bass rumble that's been haunting my sleep for weeks.
That's it. Done.
I pluck up my coffee and storm out of 4C, bare feet slapping against cold hallway tiles. The fluorescent lights flicker overhead like they're having seizures. Perfect ambiance for confronting my nightmare neighbor.
The door to 4B stands slightly ajar.Of course it does.Who needs privacy when you're conducting a one-man theater festival?
I don't knock. Don't pause. Don't give myself time to second-guess this monumentally stupid decision.
I burst through his door like I'm conducting a raid.
"What the hell?—"
But the chaos I expected isn't there.
No music equipment. No speakers the size of refrigerators. No sound system that would explain the bass notes currently vibrating in my bones.
Instead, I find a man pacing in precise circles around a coffee table, hands clasped behind his back. Tall,reallytall, with dark green skin that catches the lamplight. His hair's pulled back in a neat knot, and he's wearing what looks like pajamas. Actual flannel pajamas with a pattern of tiny books scattered across dark blue fabric.
