Curry Wafting Down the Hall

I don't know my neighbors at all. Because I've never formally been introduced, I've resorted to naming my fellow residents by their defining traits. Guy in 1C is Sweater Vest. Girl in 1D is Orange Cascades. Man above me is Stompy. I'm sure there are some apartment buildings that birth wonderful friendships like Joey and Monica, Jerry and Kramer, but, for the most part, apartments breed anonymity.

This acceptable loneliness is so bad that my next door neighbor, Business Gal, moved out, and I didn't even notice. I finally realized something was amiss when I saw a new girl moving boxes into the secretly vacated room. She was wearing a white sweatshirt billboarding green OREGON. Her jeans were comfortably worn with some white threading hanging like icicles from her knees.

I've since named her Curry.

Now this may sound racist, but I assure you this name relates only to the fact that she frequently makes curry. When I walk into my hallway, the smell often lingers like a single organ note in an empty cathedral. The first time I breathed the aroma, I had to bloodhound my way down to her door just to make sure of the source. And sure enough, the frame of her doorway oozed the viscous spiciness of curry.

I should have been personable and introduced myself the first time I saw her. I should have introduced myself the day I sniffed the lintels of her doorway. Her real name could be like ambergris dissolving the barriers of my isolation.

But maybe I've already met her by inhaling deeply every time I return home. I've grown accustomed to her cooking. I come home, beaten from work, and I imagine her throwing her arms around me and kissing me with a fresh bowl of Curry; smelling the spicy aroma of her flirtation comforts more than reality every could.