The body appeared on the fourth of October. I remember, because Lucia had suddenly decided to break up with me the night before, but also refused to leave our apartment, and didn’t want, in her words, to “force you to leave, either.” So, we were stuck in a cat and mouse game of who could tolerate sleeping in the same bed longer, until one of us discovered the humility to find a new place to live. It was a big apartment with wood floors and exposed brick, and all for pretty cheap, too. I wasn’t going to give in.

Everything about the place was great, spare the apartment building next to us. We could easily look into the apartment parallel to ours—and hence, they could look into ours. Until that October, the apartment across from us appeared to be occupied by a young couple, not unlike Lucia and myself. Unlike us, however, their relationship seemed to be dissolving in a very dramatic fashion.

Four of our thick windows lined up in diagonals against theirs. Most days, Lucia and I could hear them screeching at one another, and more often were their curtains drawn and blinds closed in those months before they left. The last we heard from them was a collection of shrieks, furniture being moved (or perhaps thrown), and what must have been their front door slamming closed.

“What do you think happened to them?” I asked Lucia, later that night, as we lay in bed.

“To who?” Lucia responded, her tightened eyes staring at her phone.

“The neighbors.”

“You mean the crazy people in the building across from us?”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t know,” she said, finally turning to me. “Why do you care?”

“I don’t really,” I said, feeling a bit embarrassed by Lucia’s disinterest. “It’s just odd—all the arguing.”

“They probably just broke up and moved out,” Lucia said, averting her eyes to her phone.

“You think they’re gone?”

“It happens.” She shrugged.

“Yeah, I guess it does.”

***

The next day, as I was getting ready to go to work, I noticed the shades in the adjacent apartment had finally been pulled up and the curtains opened. The apartment was barren. And, unlike our place, there were no wood floors and exposed brick walls. It all looked like linoleum and plaster—and everything was a bit crooked, for that matter. I suppose I already knew that, but it had been a long time since I had seen the apartment. I thought about pointing out to Lucia that our neighbors had in fact left, but then I remembered our conversation the night before. She probably wouldn’t have cared.

And then, that night, Lucia decided to end our three-year relationship.

“I just don’t feel a lot of passion,” she said, her eyes darting to the floor.

“For me, or generally?” I asked.

“Oh, I don’t know. But I think it’s better if we just go our separate ways.”

“So are you moving out?”

“No,” she said, peering directly at me.

I shed more than a few tears, and proceeded to shred some photos of us with my bare hands—right in front of her. I even burned the one picture of us standing in front of the Sagrada Família in Barcelona. That was a few years back, when we were still in love, I suppose. Lucia simply sat on the bed, watching me. I guess she was unaffected. When I finally stopped crying and got into bed with her (our backs facing one another), I could barely muster any words. But Lucia could.

“You’ll be fine,” she said, nonchalantly. “I’m not very special, anyway.”

“You’re special to me,” I stuttered.

“That’s sweet,” Lucia replied. “But that’s just your opinion. And you probably feel like you have to say that.”

“I don’t,” I uttered, but so softly she likely didn’t even register I had spoken at all. Still, I forced myself to build some resolve; I wouldn’t go sleep on the couch in the living area. And I definitely wasn’t the one who was going to leave the apartment.

***

The next morning, Lucia left for work early, and I got up very late. I even thought about calling sick into work, but finally decided against it. I dragged my feet from the bedroom to the bathroom at the other end of our apartment, dressed only in my boxers. At the last window, I noticed a large object pressed against our former neighbor’s window, and immediately jumped back.

Turning, I saw a naked back and black hair neatly shorn rising against a creased neck. The apartment was empty besides a body. I stood there for a moment, stunned. It looked like a manikin, with its smooth, unanimated porcelain skin. But why would someone place a manikin in a just-emptied apartment? I hovered there for a bit, craning my neck from side to side, trying to get a better image of whatever it was. It looked like maybe the body was breathing—but I couldn’t be sure. Either way, it creeped the hell out of me. I quickly got ready, took one last glimpse at the body, and left.

***

When I returned home that night, Lucia was sitting at our round wood kitchen table—the one we had picked up together thrifting upstate—absently eating a baguette and reading a book. I wasn’t quite sure how to handle our greetings now that we were broken up. I certainly wasn’t supposed to kiss her hello, I knew that much.

“How are you?” I asked.

“Fine,” she said, tearing a piece of fluffy bread with her teeth and chomping on it.

“I saw the weirdest thing this morning.” I peered past her to see if the body was still there.

“Which was?”

“A manikin in the window.”

“Which window?”

“The one right across from you. Right there,” I said, pointing. Lucia looked up at me first, then to her right at the empty apartment.

“Well there’s nothing there now,” she said, shaking her head and returning her gaze to her book. “Why would someone put a manikin in an empty apartment?”

“I don’t know. But there was one there before.”

“Maybe it was a drug addict squatting.”

“It was half-naked,” I said. “And yeah, I thought maybe I saw the body breathing.”

“Then maybe it wasn’t a manikin.”

“Maybe not.”

“That’s the last thing I need,” Lucia stated.

“What’s the last thing you need?”

“When do you think you’re moving out, Everett?”

***

I woke up late again the next day, still wildly depressed about the breakup. I wasn’t going to give in, of course. If Lucia was determined to stay, I was as well. And at some absurd level, I even hoped we could reconcile.

I dressed quickly in a green sweater and slacks and rushed toward the door. But something caught my eye. Again, there was the body, slacking against the glass. I thought for a moment about rapping on my window, before quickly deciding against it. From what I could tell, they were doing construction on the empty apartment. I suppose no one cared to disrupt the body, despite the renovations. Someone was tearing away at what I thought were plaster walls. They looked red now, like someone had painted over bricks. The apartment, I realized, was laid out very similarly to our own.

“What the hell…” I said, and the body in the window began to shuffle and turn its head. Terrified, I scrambled out the door.

***

Lucia was eating soup and reading when I got home. I was upset to still see her there—and that thought upset me even more so.

“I saw the body in the window again,” I said, not knowing what else to.

“Yeah?” Lucia responded, staring at her book—drops of split pea blotching its pages.

“It’s definitely a person.”

“I assumed so.”

“I wasn’t sure,” I said, peering away from her.

“It looks like they’re doing construction.”

“I noticed. Who do you think is doing it?”

“I don’t know, Everett. Whoever owns the building.”

“It looks just like our apartment.”

“Not really,” Lucia laughed.

“I could even see myself living there.” I smiled, playfully.

Lucia looked up at me, tightening her eyes.

“I can’t,” she said.

***

In the middle of the night, on the way to the bathroom, I could see lights from the adjacent apartment on. I can’t see much without my glasses, but I could see the body. Maybe Lucia was right; maybe it was some junkie. The body was shirtless again, pale and slumped, veins crawling across its back like spider’s webs. I teetered on our wood floor staring at it. And just as I found my footing, a slight crack erupted. The body rustled, and my heart pounded hurriedly in response.

“Shit,” I murmured, unsure whether I wanted to see the body’s face or run for cover. The body turned ever so slightly. For a moment, I could swear I was staring at none other than my own face.

***

The next thing I remembered was waking up in bed, covered in sweat. Lucia was gone, and I was going to be late for work again.

I dressed quickly and raced toward the door. I told myself not to look at the adjacent apartment. I couldn’t help it. The floors were now being torn up as well. Exposed brick and wood floors. Just like our own. And although there was no body, someone had attached a picture of the Sagrada Família to the window.

I shuddered.

Lucia was trying to intimidate me. I wasn’t sure whether to be furious or amused. But I surmised to confront her when she got home.

***

I was the first one back that night. When Lucia did finally return, she said she had big news.

“I’m moving out,” she said with a smile.

“Where? With who?” I asked, bewildered.

“I’ve met someone,” she said, her face growing serious. “I’ll be back over the next couple weeks to gather my things.”

“You met someone?”

“Yes.” She nodded.

“Wow.”

“The apartment is yours, Everett.”

Except now I didn’t want it.

                                                                           ***

Lucia didn’t come back. She packed up a few things and never returned. And fortunately, the body stopped showing up, too.

There’s another couple that lives across from me now. They don’t argue much. In the morning, they sit at their kitchen table across from mine and sip coffee, like Lucia and I used to, when we got along.

Sometimes, we even wave at each other on our way out the door.

– Max Dorfman