There are over 70 thousand apartment buildings and over a million residential apartments crammed into New York City's 300-square miles. One may say it was the low, yet still ridiculously high, rent at The Mare's Nest that drew her in. Or the fact it...
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Spring sun beats down on the pages of the manuscript Mara's editing. She finds it hard to concentrate after the events that took place the night before with Harry. The closed-off super, the one she thought disliked her for her clumsiness and forthright candor, let her in. Allowed her to take space in a place he holds so dear.
Shaking her head free of distractions, she focuses back on the book-in-making she's editing.
"More character development. This feels rushed." She writes the note in the margin of the paper. She says the words she's scribbling aloud. "Show... more... detail... about... Harry..." The protagonist's name in this story is Donovan. She audibly gasps when she realizes her error, underlining the name that's been haunting her, and quickly scribbling it out to write her correction.
She looks at the stack of papers she needs to read and then at her phone to check her deadlines. Somehow, despite the mental distractions, she's been getting more work done and at a quicker pace. This was all because Harry welcomed her up here to the quiet sanctuary.
"Don't go," Harry mumbles as she starts to walk away.
"I don't want to impose, though. It's honestly fine. I'll just give my neighbors a polite talking to. I'm sure they'll understand. You go ahead and feed the babies!" Mara points to the squawking chickens, patiently awaiting their feed.
"No. Really. You stay. Finish your reading. I'm done here anyways. I'll go talk to the neighbors."
You should thank him, Mara. She nervously taps the tip of her fountain pen on the parchment cover, unaware of the slew of dots she's drawn across the working title.
Pots and pans clamor on the other side of Harry's painted door. "Shit! Mother f-" The slam of a squeaky iron oven door and fall of a baking sheet is hastily followed by silent pacing. She bashfully makes a fist and knocks delicately, the old wood amplifying what should have been a quiet sound against thick acrylic.
The door swings open. Harry stands in the frame, a red beanie atop of his flour-covered face. The long sleeves of his gray thermal are pushed up to the elbows, dark brown sugar and butter creating a caramel-like paste on various spots over his black tatted skin.
"Mara," Harry says, somewhat breathless. His nostrils flare and eyes widen.
"I feel like I'm always interrupting you!" She anxiously laughs. He hates me.
"Not at all. Did you need something? The stair break again?"
She blushes. Of course he remembers. "Not yet! But the day's still young, right?" Her laugh, loud and obnoxious (as she's been told), embarasses her. By force of habit, she immediately covers her mouth with her hand. He thinks I'm annoying.
