He had seen her before. She was the Girl Next Door, quite literally. They had moved to the building around the same time last year... he had first spotted her at the mailboxes downstairs. She had startled him by coming up behind him too fast, and he had been humiliated by the way his body involuntarily jerked in response to his racing heart. She had smiled, apologetic, and she had said hello. He had noticed a lot of things about her in that half-minute. The color of her eyes, for one thing. Dark. The easiness of her grin, which had fascinated him even at first glance. But rather than say something back, his tongue had tied itself up (as it often did, much to his chagrin) and he had simply nodded at her, grabbed his mail from his assigned slot and had hurried away, cursing himself under his breath.

It became something of a routine after that. Almost every day they would find themselves in front of the mailbox together. Sometimes he would help her retrieve a letter that had slipped too far to the back of her slot, since both of theirs were at the top row and his height granted him an obvious advantage. Eventually he even started to say 'hello'. It was simple. It was even a small comfort, after all this time, for him to be able to expect her there every weekday, even though he knew nothing about her except that she subscribed to a few political magazines and her smile made his own mouth react in what his cousin Ella would call a 'dorky' sideways grin.

He didn't even know her name beyond what was printed on her mailbox. She was '37-D'.

Which was why when he cautiously peered from behind his door to inspect who had come knocking, he was stunned to find her standing there. Illuminated by candlelight, since the storm outside had succeeded in knocking out all the power on the block. He had been watching The History Channel, absorbed in a documentary about the Civil War when it had happened; all at once the hum of electricity had ceased and he had been left in complete darkness. At first he had been afraid. His first thought had been that this was an attack, and his heart had nearly stopped in his panic. But after minutes spent clutching the cushions of his couch and gasping for breath, he had reminded himself where he was and managed to convince himself (at least partially) that he was safe, that the lightning illuminating his window was the cause for this, not some terrorist plot.

He had groaned, let his head fall back against the backrest of his chair, and then had carefully stumbled his way around his apartment until he came across his flashlight (mumbling and cursing every time his toe stubbed on his furniture, which was quite frequently). After he had retrieved the light source from his small kitchen nook, the next logical step had been to light some candles so that his clumsy, staggering dance around his apartment couldn't be repeated; the entire living room was cast in a soft orange glow that reminded him of sunset. His portable cd player had been retrieved from the closet and was on the coffee table playing Ella's borrowed copy of Abbey Road ("The Beatles always calm me down, maybe they'll help you, too," she'd said, after persistently thrusting the album into his hands), and he was just settling into his favorite spot on the couch when he had heard the gentle rapping at his door.

And here they were. Staring at each other across the threshold of his apartment. He could feel his tongue tangling itself into muteness, and he blinked at her in some confusion before he forced two quiet words from his mouth. "...You ok?"

( The Soldier )