Footsteps

She's moving around up there. I can hear everything. Sometimes it's quick steps as though she's scurrying. Then the ponderous ones like she's pacing. The times when she seems to be moving furniture around are most intriguing. Can't she make up her mind? I wonder if she's learning to dance up there alone. When it's completely quiet, I'm on edge, waiting for the next fusillade of footsteps.
The suspense is getting to me. She's not doing this on purpose. Seems like a nice woman. Comes home late at night. Maybe she's a waitress or nurse. She orders a lot of stuff, but it stays in our mutual hallway for weeks before she brings them upstairs. I think maybe I'm the one who ordered these boxes, but her name is on the address label.
I should not be paying attention to any of this, but every time I resolve to mind my own business the bell rings at midnight. It's the pizza guy delivering for her, but ringing my bell by mistake. Who orders pizza at midnight?
There she goes again, scurrying across the floor. What if she has a hidden child up there or an illegal alien, barricaded in a closet? Between the pizza guy and me, we could probably break down her door and rescue whoever. Something to contemplate. I could use a slice right now.