Neighbor

There's a light rap on my door. It doesn't happen often, and my first thought is that it's someone complaining about my music or the litter box or something else I've done to be a lousy tenant. I yell "Coming" and haul myself up from the couch and throw on a robe and grab the cat, who is eager to dash out. Standing there is my neighbor from across the hall. She lives in my old apartment with her oafish boyfriend and a nondescript dog, though I found the place small for even just one person. I tried chatting with them when they first moved in but found that they weren't overly friendly. They drive a lemon yellow Vanagon which has been parked illegally in front of the building for months. No matter the season, I have only ever seen her wearing a t-shirt and shorts, and today is no exception. She has a wild mess of dark hair and pale, meaty thighs which fairly glow in the dim hallway. She's holding a flat white parcel. "I think this is yours. They must have mixed up the keys," she says.. I thank her and tell her how excited I am to get it, that it's a record I've been waiting for. She just stares so I stop babbling and shift the squirming cat and take the package and tell her I'll run down and bring hers up. I get dressed, hop on my scooter, and go downstairs, where there is indeed a key waiting in my mailbox. How it works is, the carrier puts the key in your box, you use it to unlock the proper compartment, and the key stays stuck in that lock, unable to be removed by anyone other than the mail carrier. I try the key in the lock of the package compartment but it won't turn. I check the number on the tag and see that the number is for the box she's already opened. She apparently put the wrong key in the wrong lock and it somehow opened and the key is still stuck in the lock. Or maybe the oafish boyfriend did and doesn't want to fess up so he's having her deliver the package and say it was her fault. I can just see him doing that. Struggling with it, wondering why it won't turn, getting angrier and angrier and finally forcing it to yield to his will, only to find my record inside. For some reason I think of the yellow Vanagon, sitting out by the curb for months, never getting a ticket or being towed, even though the parking authority is notoriously ruthless in this neighborhood. I jiggle the stuck key to make sure but it's tiny and I'm afraid of snapping it off. I try the other key in the other box, just in case. It doesn't turn but it doesn't get stuck either, so I pull it out and ride the elevator back upstairs and knock on their door. My old door. The only one in the building that is solid wood instead of paned with glass. She opens it and I explain the issue and hand her the key, for all the good it will do her. I hear the rumble of the boyfriend's voice but I can't make out what he's saying. The woman looks puzzled but takes the key and closes the door. I go back inside, collapse onto the couch. The afterimage of her pale thighs lingers for a long time. I finally get up and open my package and play my new record and, imagining I'm the only one living in this building, I play it loud.