Mrs. Shen next door left a key in my shoe box

【Fictional adult story. All adults.】

The second key was already in my shoe box before Mrs. Shen rang, and the stairwell still smelled of leaves someone had burned downstairs.

She is thirty-four, eight years married, and I am thirty-one. I have lived on this floor for two years. The name on the opposite door is Shen. She paused on the stairs, brushed the burnt smell off her shoulder, and only then pressed the bell. When I opened, she did not talk and she did not step in. She set that second key on the shoe cabinet. Listen first, she said.

I poured water that had gone warm in the kettle. She stepped out of her heels and lined them on the mat. The curtain stayed half drawn, so the streetlamp cut her face into one warm half and one cold half. She turned her ring once and left it in the little porcelain dish by the door. We never used the bedroom. She was afraid the sheets would carry a smell home, so the sofa was the only place she would sit.

My husband is away, she said. I can count the days. I did not come here to be rescued, and I did not come to hand you the blame. I have asked myself more than once. I want to be here. I hope you want that too. If you do not, give me the key tonight. After that we only nod in the elevator.

I want you to stay, I said.

She looked at me, steady. Are you sure? Not because you pity me. Not because the door happened to be open.

I am sure. I want you to stay. Tonight, and on the nights you still choose to come. If you take the key back, that is a stop, and a stop does not need a speech.

She nodded and set the glass square on the table. Then we go slowly, she said. Do not turn the lamp off. I am afraid of a room with no light, and I am afraid of making this feel like something taken.

We sat on the sofa a long time. Her palm was dry, then it was not. She opened my fingers one by one and closed them again, as if checking that the hand had been offered, not taken. She set my hand on her stomach and left it there. When she kissed me it was light. She caught my lower lip for a moment, then stopped. Is this all right?

Yes.

May I put my hand here?

Yes.

She leaned in, her face against my neck, and her voice went thin. He comes back tomorrow. I asked whether she regretted cutting the second key. She laughed into my collar. People who regret do not cut one. The lamp stayed on. Neither of us got up to put it out.

The lamp did not change. The tips of her ears were red, and her words stayed plain. We can stop here. If you want to stop, we stop.

I do not want to stop. Then say it again.

I want you. You want me. When we stop, we stop together.

She laughed once, short. The lamp stayed at the same brightness. What happened after that was not a story for anyone else. In the gap of the curtain the streetlamp looked like a moon that belonged to another flat. She kept her voice low. The room held breath, and one small sound from the sofa spring.

Later she leaned on me and tucked her hair behind an ear, and she looked the way she had looked on the stairs. He is back on Saturday, she said. If Thursday’s trip still holds, I will come. Before I come I will send a period. You send a period back, and that means we both still want this. If you do not answer, I will drop the key in the mailbox downstairs and we will pretend I never came.

All right, I said.

She put the ring on, turned it once, turned it back, stone facing out. At the door she stopped. Do you regret it?

People who regret do not leave the second key in the shoe box.

She kissed my lower lip, brief, as if putting a yes back where it belonged. After the door closed, the stairwell smelled only of leaves that had already burned. I put the key in the shoe box, under an old pair of shoes. I left the lamp a little longer, then I turned it off.

On Saturday I met them in the elevator. She carried groceries. She nodded to him and she nodded to me, the way a neighbor nods. The ring was on her hand. Her eyes did not flinch. At the seventh floor she stepped out first. Before the doors shut, her knuckle touched the back of my hand, light enough to have been an accident.

Thursday, two minutes past nine, a single period arrived. I sent one back.

At eleven she came. The same heels. The same half curtain. The same dish in the hall. She spoke before she sat. I am still willing. Are you?

I am still willing.

She put the key into the shoe box herself. Then we sat down. The lamp was on. Neither of us moved to kill it.

For the days between, I sent nothing. Once a day I opened the shoe box, saw the key, and shut the lid. I left the loose laces alone. I did not want metal to knock in the stairwell.

Sunday night the voices across the hall were short, something about soup in a fridge. I stayed on my side of the door. I am thirty-one. A spare sentence would turn this into a claim. She had asked for a period, not a letter.

Monday the mailbox was empty of keys. I took that as a sign and told myself it would not count until Thursday. Wednesday it rained. I dried the porcelain dish and then put it back, so it would look ordinary. I drew the curtain only halfway. She is afraid of full dark.

At two minutes past nine the period came. I sent one back, with no extra word. She hung her coat on the chair before she came close. Does the period still count? It counts. Then ask me again, she said. A few days can change a yes. Do you still want me to stay? I do. You may say no. A no has no punishment. I take the key, and we only nod in the elevator. I do not want you to take it.

She held my hand under the lamp. May I? Yes. And here? Yes. If I say we wait, will you stop? I will. She nodded, and only then rested her forehead on my shoulder. We still did not use the bedroom. When it was time, she said stop first. I stopped with her. She put the ring on and checked the mirror, not for me, but to see whether she still looked like the woman who carries groceries into an elevator.

She left before one. I did not walk her past the door. The key stayed in the box. In the morning two pairs of shoes stood in a neat row across the hall. I poured water for myself and sent nothing.

A dark hair had caught on the chair. I did not keep it. The next period came at eight forty. She put the ring in the dish and asked three things: are you still willing, may I use my hand, and when one of us says stop do we both stop. I said yes each time. The lamp stayed on. We let breath have the rest of the language.

• Full library
• Rain night she names a hotel. The driver stops asking in the mirror.
• Last night of the team trip: she slides the key into my pocket
• Anniversary night: after she draws the curtain
• New Year toasts in the hall. The pantry light is off.
• The consulting contract closed: badge and room number
• Hotel shoot | After work she said, “Don’t ask if I’m going home.”
• Her first time setting up the camera herself, she laughs into the pillow.
• The bathroom mirror is fogged. She wipes a hole and looks at you.
• After-hours spa, one lamp left. She tosses the badge aside.
• Night-call diary | She slips the ring into her bag before the door
• One office lamp left. She undoes the shirt and sits on the desk.
• The living-room lamp is still on. Next door keeps knocking.
• Red dress | Her husband smokes across the table