The Neighbor by the Elevator and Manila Envelope

The Neighbor by the Elevator and Manila Envelope

I was walking home from the office in that wet-pavement light after rain, except the street was also the hallway of my old apartment building. Someone had left a manila envelope under my door with my name spelled wrong. I kept trying to open it but the flap wouldn’t tear. A neighbor I haven’t seen since college was standing by the elevator smoking, even though we don’t allow that, and he asked if I’d found “the other one.” I didn’t know what he meant. I went looking for my keys in my coat and they were someone else’s, heavier, with a tag that said night shift. Every time I turned a corner the lights were a little dimmer and the carpet smelled like a diner. I thought if I just got to my kitchen I’d remember what I was supposed to hide. I woke up still feeling like I’d missed a meeting I wasn’t invited to.