“Define normal.”
Ellie looked at his window again. The light was still on. And now, so was a small, unnameable thing in her chest.
“Exactly. Because I have it.” A pause. “Okay, I have one piece of it. The postman’s been mixing up our buildings again. You got my issue of Modern Farmer last month, and I got your… let’s see…” Paper rustled. “Handwritten postcard from someone named June in Portland. Says she misses the way you laugh at your own jokes before you finish telling them.” sammmnextdoor
“Goodnight, Ellie three floors up.”
“Goodnight, Sam next door,” she said. “Define normal
“I could.” Another pause. “But then I wouldn’t get to hear your voice.”
Ellie closed her eyes. This was the game. The one that had started three months ago when a package for 4B had landed on her 4A doormat—a vintage vinyl of a band she’d never heard of—and she’d knocked on his door just to be nice. He’d answered with flour on his cheek and a half-baked sourdough in his hands, and somewhere between his apology and his offer of a still-warm loaf, Ellie had forgotten why she’d ever thought city living meant being alone. “Exactly
“Why do you call so late?” she asked.
