All I think about is the man beneath me. Most mornings, when I take down my trash, I time it so I can watch him leave his apartment on the way out. As his door opens, I cast my eyes down to avoid comment.
One day I follow him to the fruit and vegetable market on 52nd and 11th where he works. I buy pears and bananas, but we do not speak.
At night I hear his toilet flush, his silverware rattle, the steam as it hisses from his iron. As weeks pass the fruit he's sold me discolors and turns soft. I keep it in a bowl on my kitchen table, too lovely to throw away.