Monday


Fuck shit fuck fuck, She thought to herself as her thoughts chased themselves around in circles while she dug through the bags on her counter. Where the fuck is it? I know I bought them.

She grabs her receipt and hunts down the purchase. It's there, but it's not here and she doesn't know where exactly on the path between the self-checkout and her car and the stairs and her apartment that she lost control of the spiraling mess that was her life over some god damn fucking bologna.

The idea of putting her shoes back on and going back to the store put her on the edge of tears. Knowing she would have to fight the boys away from their games and into clothes and then back to the store was enough to push her over the edge.

Okay, just five minutes.

The word she snaps out when someone knocks at her door is one she knows she's going to get shit about from Grant when he brings the boys back Sunday night. She wipes her face and heads to the door, distracted with preparing herself for after whatever this is about. Looking through the peephole, it's a man. Handsome, brown hair, brown eyes, a little too neat, not exactly her type, but still handsome. She remembers seeing him in the lobby when she got in, looking through his mail. She checks the deadbolt, making sure it's still locked. "Yes?"

He looks up, at the peephole and smiles. "Evening Miss. I think you left this bag down in the lobby?" He steps back, and holds up a plastic grocery sack.

She feels the blood rushing to her face in... Shame? Relief? Fear? Gratitude? In something chemical as she unlatches her door and looks at the man, and at the missing bag, confusion evident on her face.

He spares her the need to ask. "I saw you with your boys and your bags. I didn't realize you dropped this until you were already gone. I live two floors down, I had to ask Mrs. Muñoz your apartment number." He hands her the bag, makes no attempt to push inside.

She looks at him. The sound the blood makes in her ears is so loud.

She opens her mouth to say something, to thank him and end this interaction butthewordsjustpouroutinarushandtheydon'tstopwhyisshedoingthis?

He ends up standing there for a good twenty minutes as everything pours out of her, one hand gripping the door-frame in a white-knuckled death grip, the other one clutching the grocery bag like it's a life preserver. He says nothing, and he looks mildly concerned, but somehow not concerned about the awful things she's unburdening herself of to him. Like he's concerned for her.

She doesn't know how to parse that.

And then, it stops. The sudden silence is deafening.

He LOOKS at her, and asks, without judgement. "Are you going to be okay?"

In that moment, it's exactly what she needs to hear. "Yes. Thank you." It comes out a whisper, but he nods.

"I'm glad. I'm Ellis Meadows, I'm in 214 if you ever need an ear. Please have a good evening." And he steps back and heads down the hall to the stairs.

Tuesday


When she looks at the letterbox in the lobby for 214, it's got the name E. Meadows printed on it.

She's surprised that he was telling the truth.

Why is she surprised that she was surprised?

Thursday


Mrs. Muñoz knew him. Well, Mrs. Muñoz knew everyone in the complex, so it wasn't surprising.

But Mrs. Muñoz knew him because he visited her when he got off work every Monday. She had nothing bad to say about him.

That was extremely odd. Mrs. Muñoz could find something bad to say about everyone in the complex. And she loved to gossip.

But it seemed that Ellis was the exception? He had some kind of time-intense job downtown that ate up all his days, but he made time to visit an old woman so she could speak to someone else who spoke fluent Spanish for a little bit.

Mrs. Muñoz made Horchata for him. Mrs. Muñoz was very proud of her Horchata and she was very smug about someone who appreciated it as much as it deserved.

It was a point of pride that she never let him leave without a fresh drink.

Friday


It wasn't chance that she happened to run into Ellis. She'd deny it, but... well she didn't know exactly what she wanted.

She had only met him once. But she felt like she could trust him.

She didn't know if she could trust that trust.

He was probably only being polite to a woman on the edge of a breakdown. When he recognized her, he'd pull back.

She would have pulled back if she met someone who had unloaded on her what she unloaded on him, unprompted.

But no, he smiles at her as they pass on the stairs. "Mrs. Pruitt, is your evening treating you well?"

She never told him her name. "I never told you my name." Her voice was flat, accusatory.

He smiled, having the good grace to look abashed. "I'm sorry, I looked at your apartment's letterbox after our encounter. I hope I haven't overstepped."

Her righteous anger vanishes, deflated like a lanced boil. Now she's embarrassed, because she had done the exact same thing. "No, no." She lets out a shaky breath. "Look, your offer? Is it still on the table?"

"Of course." He's all concern now.

She doesn't trust that. She doesn't trust her lack of trust either.

But god help her, she trusts Ellis.

"I have some tea. Upstairs. If, you don't mind me talking some things out with you?"

"You know, I'm suddenly thirsty. I'd love a drink"