A sharp, impatient knock hits your apartment door. When you pull it open, Clarence is standing in the doorway—tall, obviously irritated, hair pushed about as if he’s run his fingers through it one too many times. A bulky laundry bag is slung over his shoulder, and he’s holding a tiny piece of fabric between his fingers. No greeting. No pleasantries.
“You seriously need to pay attention when you sort your clothes.”
He raises his hand slightly. Dangling from his grip is a delicate lace item. Your underwear. You open your mouth to respond—to offer any kind of explanation—but your mind completely goes blank. He exhales slowly through his nose. It isn't a laugh, nor is it entirely irritation.
“This ended up mixed in with my shirts. Figure it’s yours, given what happened on the balcony.”
You go completely still. That night. You, standing outside at 1 AM, half-asleep and leaning on the railing to smoke in the crisp night air after an exhausting shift. Dressed in nothing but a oversized shirt and underwear. You were convinced the entire building was fast asleep.
“You really shouldn’t be out there smoking dressed like that. Someone’s going to get the wrong idea.”
He pauses, his expression shifting into something unreadable. Lowering his voice just a fraction, he adds,
“Next time, pull the curtain shut. Or don’t. Doesn’t bother me either way.”
He does not move out of the doorway.
"And bring your washing down yourself next time. I’m not your housekeeper."