Exactly two hours had passed since I started checking the windows and Mistoffelees’ litter box, and I had looked at the clock precisely eleven times. This made twelve. I was running late for work again, but that was nothing new to me – I was always late. I took my time sliding my fingers across the latches on every window, moving counter-clockwise around the apartment with even, measured steps, and I even lingered to give Mistoffelees an affectionate scratch underneath his chin while I looked over his litter box. Satisfied, I grabbed my messenger bag and slung it securely over my shoulder, indulging myself in one last glance around the room. Everything was fresh, everything was locked, and everything was in place. In a word, perfect.

The only obstacle left was the door.

The door was perhaps my greatest enemy. I twisted my arm, somehow stretching the sleeve of my pressed, slate-colored blazer over my knuckles, and seized the doorknob in a nervous grip. Standing there for a moment, I allowed myself a brief instant to breathe deeply and relax before I opened the door and shuffled outside. Once there, I only had to shut it twenty-six times, just to make sure it closed properly, and I could finally leave for work. I was being transferred today – Mr. Wheaton was tired of me being late all the time, so he’d moved me to a closer building – and I wanted to make a good impression. The very best impression. I wanted to leave my new boss staring at his office door thoughtfully, saying to himself, Now there goes the finest damn editor I’ll ever have.

Of course, this was simply not to be. I was only on slam number eighteen when I heard the creak of a door somewhere behind me, and I turned to see my neighbor leaning languidly against the wall, his legs casually crossed at the ankles as he watched me through his dark eyelashes. I knew him only as Nicolas, neighbor and occasional annoyance, who blasted swing music in the middle of the night until Mrs. Norton had to smack the ceiling with a broom from downstairs.

His hair was bedraggled; some of it fell in the dark waves as intended, but the rest of it was divided between twisting away in haphazard directions and matting itself to his head. He was still in a stained blue T-shirt and jogging pants, and, after my initial reaction of fear and distaste at the state of his clothes, I had an awful rush of guilt when I realized I must have woken him up. Dammit.

Of course, I couldn’t let myself be distracted. If I paused too long between slams, I’d lose my confidence, and I’d have to start all over again. So I grabbed the knob with my sleeve and pulled, almost growling when I didn’t hear the satisfying click I was looking for, and aggressively continued with door slam number twenty-two.

His voice was smooth when he spoke. “Having some problems there, Em?”

My left eyelid twitched in a little muscle spasm that spoke volumes of my agitation. I glared at him from the blurry corner of eye, where my glasses didn’t quite cover my vision, and furrowed my eyebrows irritably. “My name’s Emerson,” I stressed, unable to resist the urge to slam the door a little harder this time. Twenty-four.

“Yeah, I remember,” he said, chuckling. He bumped his shoulder against the wall, pushing off, and dragged himself across the grungy hallway carpet to hover near my shoulder. He laughed again, bubbling warm and dark from the back of his throat, but the sound of it did nothing to comfort me. Discreetly, I inched away from him and kept my attention focused on my current task. He asked softly, “Do you need someone to close it for you?”

“No,” I growled a little louder than necessary, mostly to drown out the sound of his voice. I mentally stumbled for a moment, wondering whether I was on twenty-five or twenty-six, and eventually decided that it hadn’t sounded right. With a strangled, almost outraged noise, I balled my hand into a fist and started the entire process again.

Leaning forward on the balls of his feet and humming softly, he pretended to curiously inspect the door hinges. “What’s wrong with it?” he wondered.

“It isn’t shutting right,” I snapped, desperately trying to avoid being distracted again. I definitely didn’t want to have to do this a third time. “It’s supposed to—” There was a brief pause as I slammed it for the fifty-second time and allowed myself an unguarded smile at the rewarding creak it made. My head tipped sideways to face Nicolas. “It’s supposed to do that,” I finished, a bit breathlessly.

His eyebrows jumped up almost to his hairline. “I can’t tell the difference.”

“You wouldn’t,” I muttered and swiveled my head to focus on the door again, locking it before I allowed my hand fall away with a sigh of relief. I tucked the key in my pocket and finally set about wrestling my hand properly through my sleeve again.

Nicolas’ eyebrows bent inwards, furrowing, and he tilted his head to indicate my arm. His voice sounded indisputably bewildered when he asked, “Why do you do that?”

“Because it’s disease-ridden,” I responded automatically, flinching as soon as the words left my mouth. I hated having this conversation.

His expression turned decidedly dubious at that. “Your sleeve?”

I sighed wearily. “No, the door handle.”

“Oh.” He glanced between my face and the doorknob and scuffed his toe somewhat awkwardly against the carpet. “Sorry, kid.”

“It’s not your problem,” I murmured, suddenly more uncomfortable than before. The palms of my hands itched, so I quickly unzipped my bag and began fumbling through it for the bottle of Purell I always kept there. I quickly squeezed a generous portion onto my hands and dropped the container back into the proper compartment, muttering to myself as I vigorously rubbed my hands together. I noticed Nicolas giving me a strange look and subtly shrank back against the wall, embarrassed. “It’s not your problem,” I repeated, catching his stare. “It’s mine.”

He nodded and flicked his eyes briefly up and down my frame, lingering on the messenger bag slung across my shoulder and the charcoal, striped tie that rested primly against my pressed shirt. He slanted his head to the side and lifted his gaze to meet mine to change the subject. “Going somewhere special?”

The corners of my mouth tipped down in a slight frown, and I gave him a stern look as I finished with the Purell and fussily began to rearrange the white cuffs of my sleeves. “Not that it’s any of your business, but I’m being transferred to a new building.”

He shifted to rest his shoulder against the wall space next to me. “What exactly do you do?”

“I’m an editor.” I paused at his blank stare. “A journalist,” I elaborated in a moderately annoyed tone.

“Hmmm…” His lips curled in a slow, lazy smile. “It suits you.”