standing in the vestibule.
So much so that I had to ask
what the hell she was doing there.
"I'm the landlord's daughter," she said,
shaking my hand, her eyes shaking me awake.
And then I walked away,
but hoped to see her another day.
The next afternoon, there she was,
fumbling with a pile of mail.
I helped her and held the door,
but couldn't say a word.
Her father is a goddamn troll,
how the hell did he make this work of art?
She laughed at my brooding,
furrowed brow and inner questions.
"What's your name?" She asked.
"Ryan," I said. "What's your middle name?"
"Don't you want to know my first name?"
"Eventually," I said.