The girl down the hall was home, and she was singing.
The other tenants complained, some didn't seem to notice, but, as far as he knew, he was the only one who actively enjoyed it. She sang so often that it had become one of those things he looked forward to, one of the comforts of home - and he didn't care if he was alone in that.
He peeked out through the crack of his open door. Her door was just visible, down a few and across the way, and it was closing. He caught a flash of her red hair, the white of her ankle, and then she was gone. He could just hear the click of her lock hitting home.
He shook his head, wishing he'd seen more of her - maybe her blue eyes or the soft smile she often wore. Wishing he had the nerve to go over there and knock.
He'd seen her, pressed to the wall of the hallway, sighing in the arms of multiple boyfriends, her gasps whispering down the hallway to his door - and he'd wished it was him making her moan. He knew she wasn't the saint she looked to be, pious and untouchable; he knew that if he touched her, he wouldn't burn. At least, not in a bad way.
He knew that she would open her door and let him in.
So why did he hesitate? He asked himself this again and again over the next week, and when the day came that she sang again; he had finally mustered his courage.
He paced the length of the hallway, ran up and down the stairs once or twice for good measure, then caught his breath, staring down the bare wood panel separating him from her.
Emily Elizabeth Dickinson (December 10, 1830 – May 15, 1886) was an American poet. Born in Amherst, Massachusetts, to a successful family with strong community ties, she lived a mostly introverted and reclusive life. After she studied at the Amherst Academy for seven years in her youth, she spent a short time at Mount Holyoke Female Seminary…