That guy, the ache in his breath jammed up the peephole, misery, desire, fear.
In the instant before his fingers fumbled free the paint-heavy chain-lock to mouse the door open he heard the footsteps on the stairs, a ready shuffle, and then a muffled wedge of words, the sound of a tight smack.
"What the fuck with these people?" moaned that guy as he heaped up his shoulders, tightened his toes to the old vinyl tiles and hitched the door open with a twist.
And what he saw through the yellow slit across the hall was the woman once again staring at his door in the company of the tall-haired man from the apartment above, the man who lived with his grown son, the man who dragged coffins around his apartment in the middle of the night - in fact the pair he had just begun to call Creepy and Crawly one month ago, just five weeks after that guy had moved into the apartment on a miraculous rent deal.
Creepy had the woman by her thin, reddened wrist and he too was now staring at that guy's door. Tears streamed down the woman's face.
"Shit, shit, shit!" he hissed to himself, ready to surrender his concealment, give himself up to the filthy yellow light of whatever horror these lunatics had smothered themselves in. But before he could get himself screwed into the scene, Creepy turned toward the woman, mumbled something in a shallow breath, and turned his way up the cold, dark stairwell.
End of part 2