the guest

It was strange at first to have a completely backwards schedule. Claire was what we call a “morning person” by nature. Before she lived alone, whomever she lived with would even be annoyed at how cheery she was first thing in the morning. Though, they always appreciated when she made them breakfast.

It was quite an adjustment to end work at 8:00am, when the sun had just risen and everyone else was getting ready for their day. On one hand, the light of the sun was almost oppressive on her tired walk home. on the other, she missed it. Seeing that yellow light was a reminder of something she missed out on by having such an off schedule.

This was made more apparent by the fact that she lived down on Level 2. Level 4 was essentially the roof, and it had glass panes on the floor, which served as skylights on level 3. So even though level 2 was above ground, it was thought of, and sometimes referred to as “the basement.”

Her apartment complex was somewhat dim. The hallways were lit by soft, orange-yellow spherical lamps affixed to the walls, so that the hallway appeared to be perpetually in the light of sunrise or sunset.

One consequence of her schedule was that she was thankful that there was no natural light in her apartment. It meant that once she turned off the lights, it was nearly pitch black except for the orangish glow from the hallway under the door. It allowed her to sleep soundly and forget the bright sunny day outside.

Today, she had just turned the lamp in her living room down to the lowest level and sat on her couch, tired despite the uneventful day at work. She made a cup of herbal tea and turned on the television, as was her ritual before bed. But there was a knock at the door.

It made her jump. No one had ever knocked on her door. In fact to her knowledge there was no one, unless she counted the next door neighbor and perhaps the others in the hall, who knew where she lived. Could it be the guy next door, eager to tell her about his latest find from the depths below? She hesitated a moment, as if hoping it was just her imagination, but the knock came again, louder.

She quickly put on a shirt and buttoned it up, then looked through the eyehole. It was Mr. Sellers. She hesitated a moment further, then opened the door.

“Miss Summers,” he said in a friendly, yet formal way. “Do you have a moment?”

“Um, yeah, sure.” She opened the door wide.

“Tea?”

“No thank you.”

She sat down on a barstool at her small counter. He remained standing.

“I trust you’re well?”

“Yes,” she said. “Thanks for asking.” She clutched her mug slightly nervously. She searched for the appropriately polite words. “Why… I mean, what can I do for you?”

“I just haven’t heard from you this week, so I thought I’d check up on you.”

“Oh…’ she tried to laugh. “Thanks. I’m good.”

“So no problems?”

She shook her head. His shoulders fell a little, and he looked visibly relieved. “That’s wonderful,” he said, quietly and almost to himself. After standing there for another awkward moment, he said, “I’m sorry, I’ll let you get back to whatever you were doing. Just, um, don’t forget to call.”

“Ok, I won’t, sorry about that.” She said. “I’ve just been busy. But I won’t forget. Thanks.” She smiled, and with that, he simply turned and went out the door.

Alone again, she closed the door, locked it, sighed, and returned to the TV. She found it hard to pay attention, though.