Next To You by Sandra Antonelli

some nights he was traveling for work, while some nights, like tonight, he’d listen to music, read the paper, and watch a lot of television. With his salad lightly dressed, he grabbed a fork, tucked the newspaper under one arm, went outside into the warm autumn evening air, and had a seat at his outdoor table.
    The radio churned out the classic music he loved. Will crunched carrot chunks, read an article about a proposed city bypass tunnel under the Chicago River, and sang along to Bad Company’s ‘Can’t Get Enough of Your Love.’ He made his way to the financial section to see how CollinsBuilt stock closed singing Grand Funk’s ‘Some Kind of Wonderful.’
    ***
    Early that morning, Caroline took an armload of flattened packing boxes down to the recycling dumpster at the rear of the building. A man with dark brows, a square mustache beneath his nose, held open the dumpster lid for her, and introduced himself.
    Wolfgang Schultz, the crime writer, wore a perpetual scowl. He did sort of resemble Hitler—if Hitler had been ten years older, and fifteen pounds lighter, but Wolf was cordial and soft-spoken as he welcomed her to the building.
    On her way back upstairs, she ran into two men in their early thirties. The dead ringer for Tom Cruise said, ‘Hi. I’m Arch, and this is my husband Dennis. You must be Caroline. Reg told us you’d be moving in.’
    Dennis said, ‘We want to have you over for welcome drinks. Are you free Sunday afternoon?’ Dennis had a head of hair that was nearly the same red as Drew and Alex, while Arch’s short hair was waxed into meringue-like fawn peaks. The pair didn’t give her a chance to get a word in, doing most of the talking, chattering away for a good ten minutes, keeping her laughing until they had to run for the bus.
    In the evening, when she came in from walking Batman, Caroline grabbed her mail from the foyer, and met Bonnie Chesterman.
    Bonnie’s velour tracksuit was a blinding shade of orange, but not as blinding as the diamond and sapphire necklace she wore. ‘You must be the C. Jones upstairs,’ she said, flapping the wad of junk mail she’d collected. ‘I’m Bonnie. I never met anyone really named Jones before. A Smith yes, but never a Jones. You’re nice and quiet. Mr. Reginaldi said you’d be. You’re his niece, right? It’s good your dog doesn’t bark too much. I’ve only heard him that first weekend and it’s good he shut up so I didn’t have to come and complain to you. What’s its name?’
    ‘Batman.’ Caroline reached back for the interior door, leading Batman toward the stairs.
    Batman sniffed Bonnie’s foot and headed for the steps.
    Bonnie pursed her mouth. ‘Well, that’s nice. He has nice dog manners. I’m glad he didn’t try to stick his nose in my crotch. I suppose he’s too small to try, but I’m sure he would if he could because that’s what dogs do, you know. You’ll pick up his business, won’t you? I won’t stand for shit on the cement in front of the building stinking up my front room if I leave the windows open. Fresh air is healthy, and I like to leave my windows open. I had them open this morning and I heard you and the boys from upstairs. I’m not saying anything bad about those two because they’re good boys, and I’m all for marriage equality—I mean why should I care, as far as that kind of thing goes, you know, they don’t flaunt it, and they’re not,’ she leaned toward Caroline and whispered, ‘ theatrical . Not that it’s any of my concern if they were; it’s just nice they’re so normal instead of being queens. Not that queens aren’t nice, but who wants to live next door to double diva drama when Helen Dimitrios gives us all the Greek diva drama already?’
    ‘It was very nice to meet you, Mrs. Chesterman,’ Caroline said, edging backward, up the steps, letting Batman pull on his leash because he wanted to get away as much as she did.
    Mrs. Chesterman advanced, pushing past her on the stairs,