apartment 2 jolie prather I don't like neighbours. In fact, I hate them. I hate the sound of children. I hate couples humping, climaxing through my ceiling. So I moved upstairs - because there - because two months, eleven quiet days and a trip in the ambulance later, the fireman moved in. I watched the U-Haul and the dollies wheel everything in. I watched through broken slats of blinds and grimy antique windows, taking inventory of his life. Across two days and the sweat of one particularly muggy, but well- lit night, I watched his wife and several of her friends carry little things in, laughing: tiny armfuls of trinkets, rusty TV trays, no more than ten or fifteen books and an open box of Victoria's underwear. I saw it all. I saw the kid and his dolls. I think he kicked a quarter down the hall. I'm pretty sure his name is Conor, but I could be wrong. I heard him laugh and thought, Is that a boy or is this a dream? You never can tell anymore. I mean, with all the - and the, well, the pot, you just never can tell anymore. So I popped the paint around the window sill and let the last cool breeze of winter slip in. I closed my eyes and turned off the music - which I never do, but I had to. Because I'm an old life now, a spinster. Someone - with nothing else to do. But, you see, don't be fooled. This firefighter, this modern day dragon slayer, Prince Charming or President, whatever you want to call him - he's just a man. When he was four, some unoriginal adult walked up to him and pinched his rosy cheek: And what do you want to be when you grow up, little boy? Well, you know the rest of the story. Uniforms are sexy and prostitution is illegal, so pass the retardant and call up Jessica, that chick from high school that wouldn't talk to you. Become something. Say you didn't join the army, for once. I'll back you up. I'll tell them what a good father you are. How you take your son into the backyard, far away from the toolshed, and teach him exactly how to ride a tricycle, look ridiculous speeding down that driveway. I'll tell them what a great man you are. How you take your wife out every Friday and send Conor to see Grandma, then bring back your sweetheart and remind her why it's okay that one day you won't come home. I'll tell them whatever you want me to tell them. Just keep it the truth and I promise I won't move. Hell, I'll even turn my music down.