oh my god, they were neighbors

tamales

When Ezra woke in the morning, about an hour and a half before his shift, he noticed a note had been slipped under his door at some point. He tried not to feel a bit uneasy, but it was rare that even the landlord addressed him, unless he was really falling behind on rent. He picked up the note and read the damn thing, telling any misgivings to go to hell.

    Hello.

    I'm not great with words, not when it comes to strangers. I'm sorry. I wanted to be more polite, I didn't mean to seem rude. You seem nice.

    I am not a people person. If that wasn't obvious.

    How are you? I'm sorry.

    - Mateo

    Ezra huffed, a bit confused at how to proceed with the note he held in his hands. Did the man—Mateo, he should call him Mateo—expect him to knock on his door? Or had he wanted another note in reply? Had he even actually wanted anything, or was the note just a mere formality? Shit.

    Making his decision, Ezra flipped the note over and scrambled for the nearest pen. He began to reply.

    Hey.

    It's cool. I get it. I'm good, I guess. Good as I can be, living here.

    You?

    - Ezra

    He went out into the hallway as quietly as possible and pushed the note under Mateo's door. As weird as the whole thing was, it was sort of nice to have something new happen. Once he'd gone back into his apartment, it was around ten minutes before he heard a knock. By the time he opened the door, Mateo had already gone, leaving only a note behind.

    I'm fine. And you're right. But it's not all that bad. It's home.

    I enjoy getting away, though. It's refreshing to go to work. I work late at night, as a bartender during the graveyard shift.

    I'm sure it is much better for your sleep schedule to work during the day. But I guess you would know that better than me.

    Thank you.

    - Mateo

    So this was a conversation, now. Fully fledged. Ezra shrugged and decided to indulge himself further in the exchange. What did he have to lose?

    I work at 7-Eleven. I'm knocked out when I get home, though. I guess checking for a bunch of teenagers trying to OD on chewing gum will do that to a guy.

    What's your favorite drink to make for people?

    - Ezra

    Same pattern, same process as before. Though this time, Ezra knocked when he left the note, just as Mateo had for him. It seemed they had found their rhythm.

    I don't make this at the bar often, but I learned the recipe from mi Mamá. It's called a paloma. It's like a margarita, but fizzier. Better, I think.

    In truth, I prefer cooking. The stress of a real kitchen might be too much for me, though. But I still like to cook for myself. If you've ever smelled tamales while walking the hallway, it's probably my kitchen.

    I'm sure there are a lot of colorful people at 7-Eleven, no?

    - Mateo