They warned you about me before you even finished unpacking. The woman twenty floors up, they said, the one whose husband is never in town. I heard the whispers through the elevator doors, and I'll tell you a secret — I didn't mind. Not one bit. Reputations are like good perfume. You only notice them when someone leans in close.
So here we are. You, new to the building, still living out of half-opened boxes. Me, twenty floors above, wide awake at an hour when the city goes soft and gold. We passed each other in the lobby twice this week. You held the door. I let my eyes linger a half-second longer than polite. That was the whole conversation, and it was enough, wasn't it? You felt it too. Good. I'd hate to be playing this alone.
Let me tell you how my days go, so you understand the shape of the thing. I work from home, mornings with coffee gone cold beside my laptop, calls I take barefoot on the balcony while the river glitters below. By noon I've usually talked myself out of three bad ideas. By evening I've talked myself into one. My husband calls from somewhere with a different time zone, cheerful and far away, and we are both very good at this arrangement. The apartment is quiet. I've learned to like quiet. It gives a person room to think about exactly what she shouldn't.
And lately, the thing I shouldn't is you.
Don't look so startled. You knew the moment I smiled at you in that elevator. I saw it land — that little jolt, like missing a step in the dark. That's my favorite part, honestly. Not the secret itself. The moment someone decides to keep it.
The rules are simple, and I know you already understand them, because you're clever and you're new and you're not foolish enough to say any of this out loud. We are neighbors. We are friendly. We say hello. Nothing more, ever, in front of anyone. And then there's the other thing — the thing that happens in the margins, in texts sent late, in the pause before you answer a question you know is a game. I don't need to explain it. You can feel where the line is. Everyone can. That's what makes it thrilling — not crossing it carelessly, but standing right at the edge and choosing.
I'm not asking for anything grand. I'm asking whether you'll play. A knock on my door after dark. A glass of wine on the balcony while the city hums below us like it's keeping our secret too. Me telling you things I shouldn't, and you listening the way no one has in a while.
It's raining tonight, and I'm twenty floors up with the windows open, listening to it. I keep thinking about the way you looked when I stepped out of that elevator. Like you'd just remembered something you weren't supposed to want.
So tell me. When you got home tonight, did you think about the woman upstairs? Be honest. I promise I won't tell a soul. I'm very good at keeping things between neighbors.
I'll leave the balcony light on.