Don't Look Down

three: don't you worry

He towers over my average height, making it convenient for him to see over my head and into my apartment. I lift onto my tippy toes to block him. His eyes meet mine. "Yeah, it is. But I'd prefer not to have my stuff stolen once I let you through my door."

"Come again?"

I shoot him a self-righteous smile that I hope feels like a kick in the junk. "Is it dawning on you yet who I am?"

"Not exactly."

"Let me give you a quick hint. I used to carry a burnt orange Valextra handbag that I spent an entire week's paycheck on. I loved it dearly. Well, I did until last night." He doesn't need to know it's a cheap knockoff; he just needs to feel embarrassment. Which he does. It's slowly creeping over his face.

"Well, fuck."

"Fuck is right."

He bites the inside of his cheek and I'm shocked he doesn't immediately bolt down the hallway. Instead, he gives me a smirk. A fucking smirk. "I feel like you're going to slap me now."

My voice is level, my expression vacant. "It's certainly probable."

He appears to bite back a laugh when he bends to unzip his duffel. After shuffling through clothes, he pulls out my beloved purse and hands it to me.

"Would you believe me if I said I was sorry?"

I swipe it from his grimy fingers and toss it onto my side table. "Not even if you meant it."

Shoving his hands into his pocket, he shrugs innocently. "At least I was nice enough to give you back your keys."

"How chivalrous of you."

We stare at each other. Actually, he's staring, I'm glaring. I wait for him to pick his bag off the floor and walk away because, clearly, we're through here.

Instead he asks, "Are you gonna invite me in now?"

My fingertips dig into my palms. "Did it ever occur to you that I needed my stuff? That I work hard for it? That I'm not some rich socialite who has things handed to her?" I throw my hand on the doorframe and grit my teeth. "I had a really crappy day yesterday and the last thing I needed was some hoodlum swooping in and making matters worse."

"Would it make you feel better if I said I really was sorry? And that there's a welt on my back the size of Mt. Everest?"

"Not really–" I pause, "–but yeah, it kind of helps. A little."

"Well good." His smirk reappears. "You have a wicked throwing arm."

If he thinks that has any effect on me, he's mistaken. I'm not a silly schoolgirl who swoons at the sight of an attractive male. I'm an educated, career-driven female with a solid head on my shoulders. So I strike him with a well-executed blow to the ego.

"I'm still not inviting you in and you're still not going to be my roommate."

His hands leave his pockets and float into the air. "Why not?"

"Are you seriously asking me that question? Because you steal things. Because you already stole from me. What idiot would let you live with them knowing that's the type of lifestyle you live?"

"One who has no other options."

"Who says I don't have other options?"

"I'm just taking a guess here, but you've already had a line of people show up at your door and considering I haven't seen another person walking around behind you in there, I'm gonna say you've turned them all down."