3rd Floor Apartments by Sheila Zwiebel

 

“You should come! I feel better when you’re with me,” she urged. “Call me if you change your mind.” Balancing the full bowls, she grabbed two spoons out of the utensil drawer and walked to the living room. “What about tomorrow?”

“I have tomorrow off,” 3B said, opening the door and walking out to the living room. They sat down on the couch and her friend proudly handed over the cereal.

“I have off too. You wanna go to the beach?”

“I’m not feeling beachy. And I have an appointment at 11. Never any free time, you know?” She ate a spoonful of the sugary cereal. Each bite crunched loud in her head, marking the time, throbbing her headache.

“Appointment for what?” asked her friend.

“Hey, thanks for breakfast,” 3B said. “But maybe we should start eating fruit or something.”

 

 

The old man from 3E made his marinara every Wednesday. He tasted the current batch, comparing it with the perfect flavors etched into his mind. It was possible that the handwritten recipe could not be found if he looked for it, though he had no reason to. Wednesdays were for sauce and Sundays were family dinners. He always made a big batch so his kids and their kids could take the leftovers home. Sundays delivered happiness to 3E, with the children playing in the spare bedroom and the overwhelming scents of pot roast and pasta filling the air. The man and his two grown sons would walk down to the front stoop to smoke cigars, especially on warm evenings. 3E man added a few turns of cracked pepper into the sauce and stirred it again. He re-tasted it, and thought of his family, wondering what discussions and jokes this Sunday’s dinner would bring.

 

 

The man from 3L left his apartment at the same time as the friends from 3B. They all exchanged hellos at the third floor landing. The women were leaving for work and errands, and he was leaving to take out the trash. Most residents of the apartment building used the trash chute at the end of the hallway, but not him. He felt more at ease by carrying it out himself. And not only down the stairs, but also eight blocks away. His backpack contained a plastic bag with the previous day’s remnants of shredded paperwork and junk mail, used tissues, and ripped up food wrappings. He placed an ultra-thin fiber optic strand through the keyhole as he left. He wouldn’t want to return home just to walk into an ambush, especially into a dark room, so he looked through before entering. Every time.

 

 

The computer screen flashed on with the sound of a telephone ringing and a much too chipper voice declaring that a new e-mail message was waiting. The woman in 3D woke up from her post-high late morning nap on the couch and saw the generic mass message declaring the fall schedule of classes. She groaned at the stacks of papers on the coffee table—more tests to be graded, progress reports to be filled out. It was the one chore of teaching she despised, paperwork. Some days were worth it. Today, actually, was inspiring. She picked up the test she had set aside earlier—the one where he’d done better in recent weeks than he had all year with the other teacher. Maybe she was making a difference after all. As she stood up and stretched, she was again thankful that her relaxant of choice today didn’t leave her with a hangover. She wondered for how much longer she’d have to continue treating her pain.

 

 

The husband and wife sat in their respective favorite armchairs in the living room of 3E, having finished their lunch and watched their shows. This was the lull in the afternoon that she always looked forward to. It gave her time to think. Their deal had held true for their nearly fifty years together: when he cooked, she cleaned. And vice versa. She had washed the lunch plates—the white dishes with the blue flower border—that sat dripping in the drying rack. She looked down at her hands and couldn’t quite tell if the wrinkles were from the warm water or old age.

            The open windows let in a rare breeze, a steady one which made the southward-facing apartment slightly cooler and more bearable for this time of day. She looked over at her half-asleep husband. Before her eyes, he morphed from the man she met—young, rambunctious, strong—to the man who sat with her now—faithful, supportive, and still strong. Strong physically, strong willed, strong of heart.

            She stared at her hands again, at how the wrinkles sheltered her aching joints, at how the elasticity had packed its bags and left her skin decades ago. She thought of asking him to put his love to the ultimate test. Silent tears wet her face and she eventually took a nap.