Page 10 of Below the Shadow of the City

He says a muffled curse and I hear movement, like he’s scrambling to look for it, until he lets out a nervous laugh. “I don’t see anything.”

“Are you sure? It looked like something.”

“Positive, I might have scared it off though, I have that effect on occasion.” He chuckles and I continue to keep my focus on the doorway. I refuse to let any furry creatures surprise me down here.

I don’t even realize when amber morning light trickles in through the tiny window. It’s hardly noticeable, a sliver of the sunrise outside. But after a quick glance at my phone I realize it’s definitely morning.

My laundry has been long dry, as has his. I hadn’t noticed when the machine stopped tumbling, and this stranger who at first I’d assumed was in a rush to get away from me willingly sat and talked with me for nearly four hours.

Had I been holding him conversationally captive? How had I not felt the same itchiness that every other date had made me feel?

Not a date. Absolutely not.

“It’s morning,” I muse.

“Huh, it is” he quietly agrees.

Suddenly my insomnia catches up with me, I’ve been up nearly twenty-four hours, a feat I hadn’t managed to achieve since my teens. “I’m sorry I held you hostage all this time, I truly didn’t realize how long we’d been talking.”

“If I wanted to leave I would have already, I have a pretty easy escape. I could’ve run halfway down the hallway here before you even realized it.”

“You just stayed because you couldn’t get your laundry while I was still in here,” I say.

“Honestly? I forgot I was even here to do laundry.”

“I should probably get going, and let you get your clothes,” disappointment audibly wraps around my voice, coming out as a complete shock to me.

Sigrid, he’s a random stranger who you’ll never see again. Get over yourself.

I get up and go to the dryer. I pull the now cool clothes from the dryer and they tumble into the basket. “If I ever find myself doing laundry in the middle of the night again I ho—maybe you’ll have clothes on the next time.” And maybe I’ll actually see the face that’s connected to the voice and charisma.

“I’ll be better prepared next time,” he says wistfully. Is he as bummed out as I am? Am I imagining it?

“Have a good day—sorry, what’s your name?” All this talking and we hadn’t managed to cover the most basic of information.

“No real name,” he cuts me off, “I wouldn’t want to be outed as the guy who does his laundry naked.” He wants this casual conversation to be cut off permanently, this is good. This is how it should end for us, parting ways in anonymity.

“Guess I’ll call you ‘Adam’ then, since you’re treating the laundry room like your own personal garden of Eden.” His spirited laugh bubbles from the crack in the door.

“And should I call you Eve?” My gut twists a bit at the question. I could keep it anonymous, but a small piece of me begs for this stranger to actually know me, I feel like he already does now.

“You could, but I’d much prefer Sigrid,” I say.

“Goodbye, Sigrid,” he says so warmly my subconscious betrays me and imagines he’s whispering it to me in bed. I catch myself, my fingers grip the handles of the laundry basket tighter.

“Goodbye, Adam.” I hear one more genuine chuckle from him before I shut the door on my side of the laundry room.

CHAPTER 4

FRIDAY, EARLY SEPTEMBER

Ican’t stop thinking about the interaction I had two days ago in the laundry room. This stranger has occupied too many of my thoughts. Perrie used to be the one to fill my days with mindless chatter and deep discussion and movie watching. I hadn’t come close to anything similar since then. Somehow, after a few hours in the basement I’d moved slightly closer to something that feels like excitement. When I returned to my apartment, right around six in the morning, I threw myself on top of my bed and passed out immediately. Our conversation had quieted every thought that normally hovers around my brain like cheap Halloween decorations, ready to jump out and scare me.

I had the foresight to email Ralph and HR while I was in the basement, feigning food poisoning. The desperate “Sent from my iPhone” modifier in the signature and the early morning timestamp only made my lie seem more realistic. It was around one in the afternoon when I arose, hot and sticky from being burrowed under blankets as the sun beamed through my windows. I accepted the fact that the day was mostly a waste, only leaving my apartment to grab a sandwich, soda, and bag of chips from the bodega down the block and watching The Golden Girls. Margo texted me to jokingly call me out for my fake sick day, peppering me with questions about the real reason I’d stayed home. She somehow always knew when I was bluffing, one of those unique best friend superpowers you don’t question. Even over text bubble, I could feel excitement jittering in her as she asked if it was because I stayed the night at someone’s place.

I typed out a few messages attempting to explain what happened, but how could I explain that I talked to a naked stranger alone in my basement for hours until the sun rose without sounding like I was primed to be the feature of a Dateline episode?

Throughout the workday on Thursday I’d made half-assed attempts to find him. I was massively distracted from my actual work because of it. I nearly missed a meeting, ordered the executive team lunch at the last minute, and I forgot to attach a file on an email. A fake name and a general possible address are essentially useless in my search, but I was trying. Margo snuck up behind me while I was in the middle of Googling “bodybuilders Williamsburg.” I had no information, I was running out of queries and combinations of keywords. I was throwing spaghetti at an imaginary wall and hoping that a singular strand would stick.