1.

The man who had moved in the apartment above mine was Mrs. Patrick's new project.

"His name is Jack. I think he served in Iraq," she told me in confidence one evening, while I was helping her unpack the groceries. "I mean, maybe it was Afghanistan, but one of those places. I know, because I was getting my mail downstairs and his box was full of army pay checks. I noticed the stamps."

I wondered if she snooped through my mail. She probably did. I didn't mind, since you couldn't find anything interesting there.

"He just has that soldier look, you know? Crew cut and stiff posture. And have you seen his scars?" she asked, drawing out the word dramatically.

I had noticed that something was wrong with his face, but we only ever intercepted each other on the stairs (elevator was broke) and I didn't get a good look.

"I just think it's really sad he's so lonely. I never see any family coming to visit him. No wife either, and he's not that young. Do you think she left him because of the scars?"

I shrugged, not willing to speculate. Mrs. Patrick meant well; she just didn't have a filter.

"You should say hi to him sometimes, Julia. Maybe he'd like some company."

I doubted that. The man mostly kept to himself and wore hoodies and scarves to cover himself up. He didn't look like a talker. If he really was an ex-soldier, he had probably seen some bad stuff on the front line and he was dealing with that. Maybe.

But I knew that if I didn't try to be "friendly", Mrs. Patrick would. As the landlady of the place, she took it upon herself to welcome every tenant to our little community. If you didn't know Mrs. Patrick upfront, you might get some strange ideas about her. I could picture her knocking on the army guy's door with a saran-wrapped Viennese fried chicken (her specialty), expecting to be invited in and buttered up. And I could also picture her face when he slammed the door in her face.

So I offered to take the chicken for her. I'd done this before with the pianist on the fifth floor. She was a 40-something woman with some serious agoraphobia. We had all kinds here.

Friday afternoon, I took the saran-wrapped Viennese fried chicken and knocked on his door.

There was no answer for a while, although I did hear feet shuffling. He must have dropped something on the floor, because I heard him curse hoarsely. When he finally opened the door, I got a faint smell of liquor from him. He didn't look drunk, though. He just looked spaced out. He was wearing a hoodie and some run-down slacks that had seen better days. His mouth was set in a hard line, but his expression was fuzzy, mainly because of the scars. I couldn't really describe them. It was as if someone had taken a pair of scissors to his mouth. It was horrible. I couldn't imagine what or who had done that. I shuddered, which I think he caught. He didn't say anything. He waited for me to do the talking.

"Hi. I'm Julia from downstairs... Listen, you don't want this chicken, do you?"

He glanced down at the saran-wrapped bulge in my hands with something like disgust. Fair enough.

"It's from Mrs. Patrick, the landlady."

He nodded with an angry twitch of his mouth. Like I said, Mrs. Patrick was an acquired taste.

"Okay, well, if she catches you on the stairs, she'll ask about the chicken. So you could just tell her you got it and it was great."

He looked at me like he didn't understand what I was going on about. I sighed.

"I'll be taking the chicken instead, but you tell her you got it. Catch my drift?"

The man finally nodded in comprehension. His mouth looked less angry.

"Thanks," I said, feeling kind of dumb. I was doing him a favor, after all. "I mean, unless you wanna share the chicken…"

He was already closing the door in my face. Good enough. It's not like I wanted further contact.

I took the Viennese fried chicken down to my flat and tried not to think about those ugly scars.


I was going to drop out of night classes. It was only logical. I already worked full-time and I was way behind on my assignments. I'd received several angry emails from my professors. It was time to quit. You didn't need extra knowledge to work in a department store. I didn't yearn for the college experience. I couldn't afford it either. I'd graduated high school four years ago, and I was doing fine by my standards.

Sometimes I ran into old classmates and had to make awkward conversation about our current lives. Those always left a bad taste in my mouth.

Last week, one of the more popular girls in my class found her way to the jewelry counter, and there I was, promoting our new spring line. She just stared at me like I was a ghost, like she couldn't believe I was still alive.

"Julia? Is that you? It's me, Cara, from Gotham High?"

I couldn't pretend I didn't recognize her. I smiled stiffly. "Hey, Cara. Nice to see you."

It wasn't. She kept me up for twenty minutes talking about her internship at a law firm and her new boyfriend who was apparently loaded and drove a Bugatti.

"Actually, that's why I'm here. I want to pick up something classy for his mom's birthday. She absolutely adores me, and I don't want to disappoint her."

I was relieved she actually wanted to buy something. My boss was already giving me pointed looks.

I began ranting off the script I knew by heart, showing her our best sells, our special Easter offer and our discounts.

"The spring collection is the newest stuff from Milan. Very high-class."

She didn't really believe me, but she made a good effort. She left with a pricey 24 carat bracelet, insisting that we should catch up one day. I wanted to laugh. Cara Grant was way above my league. She was gorgeous, in that jaw-dropping kind of way and she was pretty successful. I was neither, so it would be kind of silly to see us getting coffee together.

I don't want to sound like a pity party. I was relatively at peace with myself. I was decent-looking. I had a pretty good brain when I paid attention. But I wasn't delusional. I belonged here, behind the counter.


I saw him again a few days later when I went out to take the trash. He was coming up from the Laundromat carrying a small basket. He wore the same hoodie drawn over his head, but a different pair of slacks. I don't know why I noticed these things. Probably because I worked in a department store.

I wasn't going to say hi, but as he climbed up ahead of me, I saw his hands were shaking badly. In a fraction, I realized that his basket was going to fall and his clean clothes would get dirty.

"Watch out." I lunged forward and grabbed the basket for him.

It was half a second, maybe less, but he reacted almost without pause. My back hit the wall with a painful thud. His elbow was lodged firmly in my neck. I was too shocked to even react. My breath was coming up short. I saw dark spots before my eyes.

"Shit," I heard him expel. His face was close enough that I could see his mangled scars again. I closed my eyes.

He stepped back, releasing me. I hadn't realized how strong his grip was, because I almost fell to my knees.

"Sorry. Old habits," he muttered, picking up his basket.

I was shaking a bit, which was embarrassing. He'd startled me. But I had startled him.

Never sneak up on an ex-soldier, was the lesson.

"Leave the bag," he said, making me jump. Get a grip, Julia.

"What?"

He nodded his chin towards the garbage bag in my head.

"I'll take it out for you."

I was going to protest, but he gave me a look that said maybe I should just be on my way. This was his way of apologizing.

Back in my apartment, I bolted the door and leaned against it for a while. I hadn't been scared like that in a while. It was kind of silly. I felt sorry for him, in a way. He must've gone through some serious shit if that was how he reacted on a daily basis. I went into the kitchen, grabbed a beer from the fridge, and took a large gulp.

For Mrs. Patrick's sake, I hoped she'd lose interest in him.


Hi. I know there are probably many stories with a similar premise, but I wanted to try my own version. Hope you liked it!