upstairs ROBERT ISENBERG
We knew they liked to take showers. The water was always running, and they were always giggling. People in the building complained to each other, especially the woman who lived below. The couple would chase each other around the apartment, and the way their feet stomped, we knew they were barefoot, and probably naked. We didn’t see them often, usually late at night, when they’d stumble into the vestibule, laughing loudly. They’d start kissing—he would press her against the wall and they’d run hands all over each other. They had only lived in the building five months. When they moved in, they hauled mostly wicker furniture up the stairs—cheap and light. The man, Sid, said hello sometimes, but the woman, Estelle, always glanced at him. We should be going, she always seemed to say. He always wore a suede jacket, jeans, browned sunglasses. She wore tank tops and a variety of skirts, mostly denim. They denied it, but we knew they climbed on the roof and drank beer up there, especially when it rained. They loved the rain. Their windows were open that whole summer, but they were open wider when the storm clouds broke. After a good pour, they left wet footprints in the hall; their shoes would squish along the corridor, past our doors. Half the time they forgot to pick up their mail, so it spilled out of their box – which was never locked – and fell on the ruddy gray carpet. The only time we could smell marijuana was during the thunderstorms. They were usually gone at night, getting drunk somewhere, but when the lightning flashed, we smelled the earthy smoke, all the way down to the basement. Those of us who knew, we knew it was good stuff. Powerful. Sid would make sighing noises—a kind of toneless sing-song—every time the lightning flashed in the distance. When the thunder clapped nearby, coinciding with the flash, Estelle would scream, and they’d both start laughing like crazy.