Flash Fiction: The Man Upstairs

Photo Cliff Scholz

Alan lived in the apartment directly overhead, with a floor plan identical to Sherry’s. Though not particularly heavy in his footsteps, a month after he’d moved in, Sherry had nonetheless gotten to know the rhythms of his tenancy: his arrival and waking times, when he went to the bathroom and the kitchen, and how much time he spent in each. Through the plumbing she got information about how often he showered and even when he flushed. She knew when he typically went to bed, which was often around the same time she did, and pretty soon she began making sure that it was. She liked to imagine him up there as she fell asleep.

The previous upstairs tenant had been a retired railroad worker, and his sounds meant nothing to Sherry, didn’t even register as distinct from the other sounds in the building. Then, after a few weeks during which the building’s halls and elevator were frequented by people in medical uniforms, he died. Word went around.

Alan arrived six weeks later. Sherry saw him moving in and introduced herself to him and some of his friends who had come to help out with the move. Alan’s youthful footsteps contrasted sharply with the previous tenant, and Sherry’s growing attunement to his comings and goings made it easy for her to engineer coincidental encounters in the halls and elevator.

After a few months had passed, they became lovers. Of course, during their times together in her apartment, no comforting sounds came from his activity upstairs. When they slept together, after Alan had done everything he could to please her in bed, Sherry sometimes found herself staring up at the ceiling, missing him.