She took this as a sign that she had to confront him. Every day she would walk up the two flights of stairs to her apartment. On the landing in between her comfort and the main entrance, there was a bright red painted rectangular block of wood that antagonized her every time she glanced at it. After a while she stopped glancing at the door and trained her eyes to focus on the steps. One at a time she'd climb, head down, noticing new scuffs and chipped paint. Some nights with her eyes glued to the stairs she'd hear jazz music, basketball games, pots banging in the kitchen, or nothing at all.
PLACE z\
Each sound transporting her back to the other side of that door. The vintage record player she scored at an eBay auction, nights after work curled up on the tattered leather sofa watching ESPN, playing Jenga with the over stacked dishes on the dish rack, reading a book with her feet on his lap.
One night she got a phone call as she was counting steps and without thinking looked up as she answered. Her eyes drifted to the red, causing her to leave the "hello" stuck in her throat. That night, like most nights the door was closed, it was a nothing night.
Tonight as she counted steps, the usual muffled sounds from the door were crisp. There were voices all shouting out orders at the same time.
"Take this down first"
"To the right."
"Be gentle with that it's vintage."
Her neck snapped up just as two men holding a couch asked to be excused. She stepped on the landing to make room. The red door replaced now with an opening, She stood and started, waiting for a moment, waiting for the moment. She could feel his footsteps coming closer to the opening, she could hear the bass of his laugh as he cut the corner from the living room to the main hallway. She could smell his cologne once he filled the doorway. She saw him, finally. She opened her mouth to speak, but the hello was still stuck in her throat. ADVERB
