We might be more familiar with each other now, but this has to stop.
I received a text from him last week saying he spoke to someone about the sound issue. The fix would require both of us to temporarily move out of our apartments.
That’s not an option, so here we are again.
Thudding.
There are bags under my eyes, and they’re not the cute little smudges concealer handles in three dabs. No, these are full-blown under-eye carry-ons. I caught my reflection in the microwave door earlier and audibly gasped. That’s how it’s going.
Beckett’s been running like a lunatic all week. I say that with clinical observation, not judgment. I’ve studied him, monitored him, watched patterns form.It’s starting to become a little creepy, I know, but I’m too far gone to stop now.
He runs at midnight. One. Three-thirty once. It’s a full sprint. Listening to him leaves me exhausted. I’ve tried to ignore it and be reasonable, but it’s hard to be reasonable when your ceiling becomes a live-action arena while you’re trying to sleep.
And I’ve noticed things. Not just the treadmill. Oh no. I’ve noticed everything.
I know he’s polite to the doorman. I once heard him say, “Thanks, Harold. Appreciate it. Hope your granddaughter’s recital went well.”
When did he steal Harold?
Harold is mine.
I know he tips well at the coffee shop down the street because I saw him there last week. He even paid formycoffee.
He wears glasses sometimes. I don’t want to admit it, but it’s annoying how hot it is. Offensive, even.
It’s fine for him. All he has to put up with is my occasional music choices, maybe a dance workout video if I’m feeling brave.
For me? I live under a gym. I hear everything. Every step, every treadmill rotation, every gruff little grunt when he’s doing push-ups or whatever testosterone-fueled nonsense he’s up to.
So tonight, I’m done.
I’m retaliating.
I’m sipping honey tea in the kitchen to warm my vocal cords. Physiotherapy has been working wonders on my back, so I’m limber. A scented candle is burning in my bedroom.
I’ve set the mood for petty vengeance because tonight, when he goes to bed, I getveryloud.
The treadmill finally stops.
I go still, mug half-raised to my lips. My heart rate picks up.
It’s happening.
I wait. Listen. Count.
The shower comes on. It’s faint, but I’ve trained for this. My ears are calibrated. NASA should study me. It’s a short shower. He’s efficient like that.
Then I hear the footsteps.
I track them in real time. I know the layout of his apartment. His place is bigger, but the bedrooms are in the same spot. I follow the muted thuds across the ceiling.
He’s moving. Left. Then a pause.
He’s in the bedroom.
Yes.
I set my mug down and crack my knuckles.
