Page 9 of Below the Shadow of the City

I think of ways to fill the silence, because despite my nature being to seek out solitude, I am trying to be at least a baseline level of polite. To the naked man. In the basement. Who has yet to convince me he isn’t some massive weirdo. “So, uh, big Broadway guy?” I ask.

“More like the younger brother of a sister who was totally obsessed with musical theater.”

“Ah yes. That’s what all the secret musical theater geeks say.”

“I guess I’d be lying if I said some of her interests didn’t rub off on me.”

“And you’re reading Les Mis because you’re someone who sings all the parts of ‘One Day More’ in the shower?”

“Guilty as charged. With the singing, not it influencing my choice in reading. But when I finally audition one day Broadway won’t know what hit them.”

“Oh, I’m sure,” I tut.

“Everyone assumes I’d have this baritone voice but between you and me, I’m a killer soprano.”

I bark out a laugh at the comment. “I won’t tell a soul.”

A few more moments of quiet stretch between us. He clears his throat a few times, like he wants to say something but is unsure what.

“Do you typically read classic French literature, then, or is this an exception to the rule?” I find myself saying, completely out of character for me to be the one to initiate conversation.

“Honestly, I don’t read much at all.” He sounds embarrassed to admit it. “But I’m trying to do it more. And a friend recommended this but I’m totally in over my head here.”

“You are jumping off the deep end a bit,” I agree.

“Well, my sister suggested hockey romance, and my best friend suggested historical nonfiction. And since I don’t want to read about college hockey players hooking up or the wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald, here we are.”

“Les Mis, which obviously everyone knows is the happy medium between historical nonfiction and hockey romance.”

“Precisely,” he chuckles. “And considering you seem particularly miserable about being forced to read the corporate self help book, I’m guessing you don’t typically do nonfiction.”

“Between you and me, I don’t read much, either. Plenty of fanfiction, but very little beyond that.”

“I’m sure a hundred thousand word count slow burn enemies to lovers between two TV show characters counts for something.”

Way too spot on. Because yes, that is my trope. Every. Single. Time. Maybe it’s because I don’t think anyone could fall for me without knowing the most horrific pieces of my soul first. Something to unpack later.

“Well, now I just feel called out,” I snicker.

“Your secret is safe with me, and we’re even now. Both harboring secrets for the other.”

“Is there going to be a blood oath involved?”

“No need for such extreme measures yet, I think we’re both protected by our respective anonymity.”

I get a flicker of a reminder again that this guy is still sitting behind the door, naked. Though “not totally naked” in his words, I still don’t know if I can trust him.

This predicament is a little comical. And if I didn’t know better I’d say it’s a romcom premise in the making.

He’s a naked stranger Sigrid, and you’re just making small talk with him while waiting for your laundry to dry.

But the small talk we’re making feels like more than just perfunctory conversational fodder between two random strangers. I’ve never met anyone who knows my favorite band and all of the members' other projects. He talks passionately about the connection between their two albums and the leitmotifs and shared themes like someone who’s taken a college course in it. And I hang desperately onto every single word he says.

He shares interesting takes on pop culture that normally would be shared over a candlelit table in a bar. He laughs, genuinely, at the snarky jokes I make. He’s intriguing. Intriguing enough that I could understand why someone would invite a person back to their place immediately after meeting.

Suddenly, a flash of fur catches the corner of my eye. Right in the barely open crack of the doorway that this guy is sitting behind. I’ve lived in New York for a decade, I’ve seen rats that look like they’re more primed to be training Ninja Turtles to fight than reside in alleyways and subway stations and from the glimpse I caught, this thing is big.

“Don’t freak out,” I say, my eyes trained to the doorway now. “But I think I just saw a rat. Like, right next to you.”