The Argument

I pretended I wasn't watching, which is easy when you bury your face into the neck of your guitar because you still have trouble with barre chords.

It was hard not to miss her, though. We'd first met in February, when snow embraced her car and I had just moved in. I did what any neighbor should do, new or otherwise. I grabbed a shovel and dug her out. We introduced ourselves and as usual, I forgot her name within seconds.

Six months later, I cautiously watched her storm out of her mother's apartment and onto the handicapped ramp. She lit a sprag and shushed me from across the parking lot.

"Am I playing too loud?" I shouted from the porch.

"No," she said, pointing to her cigarette.

"Oh," I said. "Because I have this thing about playing loud and awful..."

Enter mom, who waddled out onto her stoop. Forgothername flicked her butt and stormed back to her mother.

They whispered and returned inside. A minute later, daughter bolted from mom's place and out to her own, down the hill and behind the building.

"HOPE YOU HAVE A NICE LIFE!" mom shouted from inside, door still bouncing on the frame.

I continued playing "When You Say Nothing At All."