One evening after returning from my business writing class, I ran into Laurel in the lobby of our building by the mailboxes. She and I hadn’t seen each other since our awkward introduction shortly after I moved in. Even though it was July and humid as hell, she was dressed in her usual attire of black: black tee shirt, black skirt, and black combat boots.
“Hi,” she said.
“Hi,” I said. “How are you, Laurel?”
“Fine.”
She didn’t look fine. She looked pained to even be in my presence.
“Look, Brian,” she said, “I think we got off on the wrong foot and I’m sorry about that.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I said, stuffing my mail into my messenger bag.
I expected us both to go our separate ways then, but Laurel surprised me by asking if I wanted to have a drink with her. I looked at her dressed
