You had just moved into the gaudiest neighborhood ever. There were literally no yards anywhere; only weeds and vines that crept up the sides of the tall apartments. Not that you cared. You were used to staying in the house.
Regardless, the point was that this neighborhood was the worst thing to ever happen to you. Bro decided to move here on a whim. He didn't say much about it; just packed you up and left. You were loaded, so you figured it wasn't for financial reasons. You begrudgingly accepted your fate, but made a point to complain during the entire move.
The apartment was musty. It looked, felt and smelled grey. The wallpaper was a sickly yellow color, and the wood floors were covered with a layer of dust. You sighed and carried your boxes to your room. It wasn't so bad. Light danced in from a huge window; the view however, wasn't much. It faced a taller apartment's wall.
You unpacked, and began to recreate the set up you had back in Texas. Your place in Texas made you feel cold, important and adult. This place just made you feel like some pansy out of a novel about middle-aged women, and for middle-aged women.
You fell with a groan onto the bed you had just finished putting together. Your bones ached as they adjusted to the soft mattress. You slipped your glasses from your nose and onto the ground as your eyelids began to fall. You felt your mind release when a soft sound met your ears. Soft tinkling notes swam through the air around you. You shifted onto your side and stretched as you fell asleep.
It was like that every night. You would open your window around eight every night. The music always came. You would sit at your computer with your headphones off and just listen. Sometimes the piano-player would sing. You would never admit it but they sounded beautiful.
Tonight you decided to shake things up a bit. The smooth-Strider way. Oh yes. You grabbed some papers and crumpled them into balls. You leaned out of your window and aimed at the apartment that you had identified was making the noise. The paper flew against the other's window and fell to the ground. You threw a few more before you heard the piano stop.
Eagerly you tossed your last ball. The window swung open and a small boy, around your age, stuck his head out. "What the hell? Who's there?" He asked. You smirked, "the name's Strider. I just moved in. I like your piano playing, slick. Some good tunes." You could see the boy's eyebrows flicker up as he readjusted to look down at you. "Strider? What kind of name is Strider? Im John. John Egbert." He paused. "And uh… Thanks. I'm sorry if it's bothersome or anything. I like playing at night because I feel most creative or whatever-" You cut him off, "Strider's my last name, smartass. First name's Dave. And no dude, it's fine. It's cool, really." He beamed down at you, his buckteeth evident in his smile, "well nice to meet you Dave."
"I gotta get back inside. But it was cool to meet you Egbert. Hope we can talk again."
He agreed before slinking back into his apartment and shutting the window. Slowly, the music began again. You slipped into bed, sighing. Yep. You were most definitely something out of a novel.