I live right upstairs.
Footsteps and chatter echoed in a crescendo up the dark stairwell. The sharp clicks of her stilettos on the sullied steps – jarring to the bum passed out on the mezzanine. Her hips swayed, almost rhythmically, to the melody of the night breeze.
They arrived at hers – a badly selected mix of glossy orange and pink coated the door, along with a poster of The Doors. She turned to face him – eagerly anticipating a response to her square, bald-faced attempt at humor – and received a curt smile.
He wasn’t one to appreciate a joke.
Perhaps sensing this, she kicked off her heels and sauntered, though slightly sheepishly, over to her refrigerator – a filthy, tacky old thing out of the seventies.
“Can I get you anything to drink?” she offered.
He shook his head with a tight-lipped expression.
“I believe I was invited upstairs for the promise of something I don’t seem to be receiving” he murmured, nonchalance spread across his face.
She inhaled sharply and turned to face him – feigned sultriness masked her rancor.
He smiled, perhaps for the first time that night, as her gown fell to the floor and jet-black hair cascaded down her waist.
She lived right upstairs.