The sounds were unmistakable––a sharp, percussive slap followed by a high-pitched shriek.

“He hits her,” Ryan thought. “The son of a bitch hits her.”

A male voice bled through the ceiling. “Why the fuck do you make me do this to you? Huh? Why?”

She began to cry. The guy upstairs spoke more softly, his words indiscernible. Ryan imagined the bastard stroking her shoulder and whispering in her ear.

He sat at his desk. Lines of code, part of a project for work, filled his computer screen. Several minutes had passed since he had looked at it.

It was not the first time he had heard the girl upstairs argue with her boyfriend. But it was the first argument that had sounded violent.

Her name was Allison, and Ryan sort of knew her. Their building was a five floor walkup with eighteen small units. On a blustery night in February, they had arrived simultaneously at the front door, talking a bit as they dug their keys out of their pockets. He unlocked the door and held it open for her. Once inside they shook hands––she needed to remove her puffy mitten, which Ryan found endearing––and introduced themselves. He asked her what sort of work she did, and she had replied, “Marketing.” He told her his title was “consultant” but that “computer programmer” was a more accurate description of what his job entailed. That was all the personal information they had time to share. They said good night to each other as they reached the third floor landing.

The door to Allison’s apartment opened and closed. Quick but heavy footsteps descended the stairs. Ryan looked out his peephole.

For a split second, a distorted image of Allison’s idiot boyfriend was visible.

He had thick, dark, longish hair. Stubble dotted his face, and he wore a leather jacket. He wasn’t especially tall––he was several inches shorter than Ryan, actually––but he was muscular. Ryan had seen him a few times on the sidewalk or on the stairs. He strutted when he walked, swinging his shoulders. His default facial expression was an arrogant, self-satisfied half-smile.

A single word seemed to describe him perfectly––douchebag.

Ryan waited until the visitor had descended to the lobby and stepped out onto Second Avenue. Then he waited some more, his hand clutching the doorknob.

He recalled the second most significant interaction that he and Allison had had. His apartment was one of several in the building that had been infested with cockroaches, the problem so bad he had awakened one night when a bug crawled across his closed eyelid. Passing her on the stairs, he had euphemistically asked if, like other residents, she had been bothered recently by “unwelcome guests.” She had looked at him quizzically, not understanding what he meant. He explained that he was referring to the roach infestation that the building was finally getting a handle on. Amused by his choice of words, she told him that while she saw a roach every so often, her problem was not nearly as severe as what others had experienced.

Even by New York standards, Allison was pretty, blonde and cute in a way that seemed natural and unforced. She had the look of a girl who had played sports when she was younger. Her cheekbones were dotted with freckles.

It was unlike Ryan to act rashly. In both his career and his personal life, he tended to be cautious, even timid. Yet the surge of adrenaline he felt in that moment compelled him to respond. Pacing around his apartment feeling outraged was not a suitable option. Before he knew it, he had climbed a flight of stairs.

Standing outside her door, he could just barely hear her inside. She was sniffling, her breath ragged.

He knocked.

She fell silent, as if holding her breath.

“It’s Ryan,” he said.

For several agonizing seconds, he waited.

“Who?” she asked.

“Ryan. The guy downstairs.”

The door opened. Despite the sadness in her eyes, she smiled and shrugged. “What do you want?”

He examined her face, noting some redness on its left side. “I thought I might have heard some noise.”

Allison nodded. “Oh. Sorry about that. My friend and I were just having a little argument. No big deal.” She clenched her hands into fists.

He resisted the urge to lay a hand on top of hers. “Okay,” he said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

Scared and uncertain, she sucked in her lips and stared at the floor. But then, to his amazement, she reached out and seized his hand. He tingled all over.

They looked at each other, her eyes glistening and full of gratitude.

Letting go, she stepped back and whispered, “Goodbye.”

“Okay. Goodbye.”

Softly, she shut the door.

#

Ryan felt it would be best to leave Allison alone for a few days and give her some time to heal in private.

He thought about her constantly. In the morning, he listened to her footsteps above him, her heels clicking against the hardwood floor. During the day, when they were each at their respective offices, his mind wandered, the pixels of his computer monitor blurring as he daydreamed about her. In the evening, he heard the muffled sound of her television and, occasionally, of her kitchen sink, the spray of the faucet producing a tinny ringing sound as it struck the bottom of a pan. He imagined her squeezing a strand of detergent from a bottle, the pot overflowing with hot bubbles.

He lay in bed at night, aware of Allison’s physical proximity––a scant twelve feet of vertical distance was all that separated them. He wondered if she was thinking about him just as he was thinking about her.

Ryan took it for granted that Allison had promptly cut all ties with her abusive boyfriend. A sensible woman would understand that such violence was unacceptable, and that if he had hit her once, he was likely to do so again.

In one of Ryan’s fantasies, he imagined Allison’s ex-boyfriend returning to her apartment uninvited. Drunk and belligerent, he banged on her door, yelling. Hoping to calm him, she opened it, and another argument ensued. Hearing the noise, Ryan rushed upstairs. He had never been in a fistfight before, but the need to protect Allison allowed him to rise to the occasion. He and the ex circled each other like boxers while Allison begged them not to fight.

Although Ryan was skinnier than his rival, he had the advantage of longer arms. And while his opponent’s drunkenness made him fierce, it also made him sloppy. Dodging a flurry of punches, Ryan landed several solid hits. Allison’s ex-boyfriend lost his balance and stumbled, dropping to his knees.

It was over. Had Ryan wanted to, he could have kicked him and done serious damage.

“Get the hell out of here,” Ryan said. “Right now before I call the police. Go!”

Defeated, the scumbag showed his cowardly true colors and fled, scampering down the stairs like a scared rat.

The thought of Allison then throwing her arms around him seemed so idealized that even Ryan had trouble believing in it. Instead, he pictured himself talking to her calmly, letting her know that he was downstairs if she needed anything. He would write down his cell phone number and assure her that she was free to call him anytime.

Her affection for him would develop gradually. They would cultivate a friendship, which, when she was ready, would progress into something more. Their relationship, he imagined, would be torrid and intensely physical but free of acrimony and, needless to say, of violence.

#

Returning home from work on Friday, Ryan was dispirited by his lack of weekend plans.

Anxiety took hold of him. Four days had passed since Allison’s altercation with her ex-boyfriend. Ryan had promised himself that he would give her some time to process what had happened and to begin recovering from it before making contact with her again. Exactly how long he would wait was not something he had determined.

Attractive women, he knew, tended not to be single for long. His stomach tightened as he considered the possibility that she had met someone new.

He went into the bathroom and splashed water on his face. Still wearing the slacks and polo shirt he had worn to the office, Ryan climbed the stairs.

From out in the hallway, he smelled fresh tomato sauce simmering on the stove. Ryan wondered if she was expecting company or merely cooking for herself.

He hesitated, his fist hovering inches from her door. He knocked.

Her voice was tense, on edge. “Who is it?” she asked.

“It’s Ryan,” he said.

“Who?”

It was as if he had been punched in the stomach. He felt dizzy, nauseated. “Ryan. The guy downstairs.”

Her door swung open. While her outfit may have been casual, he was certain her dark jeans and scoop neck shirt had been deliberately selected. Clean and new, her clothes seemed perfectly fitted to her shape. She looked fantastic.

“Can I help you?” she asked.

Ryan was not accustomed to seeing her with makeup. Although he usually thought women looked better without it, its subtle application seemed to augment Allison’s beauty, the lipstick accentuating the fine shape of her mouth.

His words came haltingly, like stones he was tripping over. “I just wanted to make sure you were all right. That’s all.”

She appeared not only confused but annoyed. “And why would you do that?”

“After what happened,” he replied. “On Monday. On Monday night around nine o’clock.”

She looked off to the side, shaking her head as she smiled. “You need to go.”

“Why?” he asked. “Who’s coming over?”

“None of your business.” She pointed down the stairs. “Go. Now.”

Ryan took a step back. She seemed so much less intelligent and sophisticated than he had imagined her to be. “So is he on his way?”

“Look, you really have to go. I am not kidding. If he sees you here…”

Her buzzer went off, its harsh sound jarring both of them. He retreated further, the back of his head brushing against the brick wall.

Finally, she looked at him. “Please go. Please.”

Their building did not have a full-fledged intercom system. There was no way to speak with whoever was outside, only a button that, when pressed, released the lock on the front door.

“You don’t have to let him in,” Ryan said. “You shouldn’t. Don’t let him control you.”

She hesitated a moment, then, full of spite, pressed the button.

The speaker emitted a soft buzz for as long as the button was held down. For Ryan, it was as if electrodes attached to his spine were discharging a low-level current into his body.

“Why are you not leaving?” Allison asked. “Go.” She grabbed him above the elbow, tugging ineffectually. He pulled his arm free.

Even while holding a handrail and climbing steps, her boyfriend moved with that same conceited, shoulder-swinging motion. There was something vaguely simian about him.

The sight of Ryan alarmed him. “Who are you?” he asked.

“My name is Ryan. I live downstairs.”

Her boyfriend gave Allison a hard look. She in turn stared at Ryan with undisguised contempt. Satisfied with her reaction, he looked back at Ryan. “Yeah? And?”

Ryan’s fantasy of trouncing the guy in a brawl played in his mind like a ridiculous cartoon. “What’s your name, by the way?”

“Todd.”

Ryan was oddly disappointed. Todd seemed bland and common. He had hoped it would be something more obnoxious, like Phil or Steve or Chip. “Well, Todd, I just came up to tell Allison how some of us in the building have been having a problem with unwelcome guests. Trespassers, if you will. Of the arthropodal variety.”

Todd sensed he was being mocked. Remaining surprisingly calm, he smiled and asked, “Arthro-what?”

“Arthropods, the huge family of shelled, segmented creatures that includes insects, spiders, and crustaceans. I’m talking about cockroaches, specifically. Dirty, vicious, vile creatures. Not to mention stupid. Do you have any idea how small the brain of a cockroach is? We’re talking a few millimeters in diameter.” Ryan curled his thumb and forefinger so that their tips nearly touched. “But Allison here apparently doesn’t have a problem with roaches in her apartment. What can I say? I guess she’s just lucky now, isn’t she?”

Todd laid a hand on the small of Allison’s back. The way he glanced at her while jerking his head at Ryan conveyed a clear message––take care of this.

Allison came forward, her stare like ice. “Stay the hell away from me,” she said. “I mean it.”

Ryan nodded, his eyes stinging. “Fine. No problem. I will.”

He turned and descended the stairs, his hostility growing with each step he took.

“What a bitch,” Ryan thought. “What a weak, stupid, messed up bitch.”

He promised himself that, no matter what he saw or heard, he would indeed “Stay the hell away” from her, just as she requested. Someone else could waste his time knocking on her door. He was through with her.