Downstairs Neighbors Drama

In my apartment, the floors do not insulate sound.

They're at a bar. He's ready to go. She orders another drink and twirls her hair and chats with a group of strange men. They look at her. He stands apart, drinkless.

"She knew I was ready to go," he thinks.

At home later he won't talk to her, as if he's ashamed of her. He doesn't want to touch her. Though she pretties herself for hours, she feels unattractive, unable to use the reward of sex to shape his actions. Without that, she feels powerless. It's been five months since he went down on her. He doesn't seem to care.

Now he plays Xbox in the entertainment room, laughing and killing, and she listens to Garth Brooks in the kitchen. She knocks on the door to tell him she's going to bed. He tells her to leave him alone. He yells at her to leave him alone.

Much later she goes back to Wisconsin. Cheese is better than that man. Hell, butter is.