"I'll remember that when I'm ordering pizza because the stew tastes like seasoned cardboard."
"I doubt your cooking skills will necessitate emergency food delivery."
"You have more faith in my abilities than I do."
"Faith based on observation of your attention to detail in other areas."
What does that mean?
Before I can ask for clarification, he's stepping back toward the stairwell.
"Thank you again for the translation assistance."
"Anytime. Good luck with the cultural preservation project."
"Until next time."
I watch him disappear up the stairs, then close my door and lean against it while my pulse settles back to normal rhythm.
What just happened?
Another unexpectedly engaging conversation, that's what happened. Another demonstration that my upstairs neighbor possesses the kind of intellectual curiosity and cultural awareness that I find dangerously appealing in people.
The stew continues its patient simmer while I process this latest interaction. He came downstairs specifically to ask for myprofessional opinion. He values my expertise enough to seek feedback on his cultural preservation work. He noticed details about my attention to other areas, whatever that means.
Stop overthinking.
I return to the kitchen and taste the stew. Rich, earthy, satisfying and surprising me. The vegetables have absorbed the herb flavors while maintaining distinct textures. Success, not disaster.
But I definitely made enough for two people.
Subconscious meal planning strikes again.
The smart thing would be to package half for freezer storage and enjoy reasonable portion sizes like a functional adult. The impulsive thing would be to knock on his door and offer to share experimental vegan cooking with someone who apparently appreciates cultural food bridges and considers hope an essential ingredient.
Impulsive wins.
I ladle stew into two bowls, grab spoons and napkins, and head upstairs before rational thought can interfere with spontaneous neighborly gestures.
But halfway up the stairs, I stop.
What am I doing?
This feels like crossing some invisible line from casual neighbors to... what? Friends? Something more complicated? I barely know this person beyond complaints and hallway conversations, but I'm carrying homemade food to his door like some domestic fantasy version of myself.
Turn around. Go back downstairs. Eat your stew alone like a sensible person.
Instead, I climb the remaining steps and knock on his door.
No answer.
I knock again, louder this time.
Still nothing.
The barbecue smell has faded, replaced by something that might be incense or candles. Maybe he's in the shower. Maybe he's taking a nap. Maybe he's practicing Shakespeare recitation with headphones on and can't hear knocking.
Maybe this is the universe saving me from making a fool of myself.
