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Man Downstairs

I can hear him shower downstairs.  He drops water on the floor.  I think I can hear him cleaning his armpits.  The showers do not go over 10 minutes, if they do I flush the toilet and stomp on the ground.  I think I can hear him tinkle.  He closes the lid when he's done.

He is my first renter.  He is the one who makes the basement alive.  When he cooks, I cook.  When he eats, I eat.  I think I can hear him snapping at his crackers.  I have seen him enter through the door carrying a jar of jam.  He must like jam.  I also like jam.  It sings in my mouth.  Sometimes I sing also.  I think he can hear it down there, and I'm sure he must like it.  He can hear the floor pound and bang at my dancing, and he must imagine the most dazzling moves, when really I am just stomping around with jam in my mouth. HAHA!

I do love it when it rains.  I love it when the rain splashes in my hair.  Do you love it when it rains, Man Downstairs?  I think he does.  I think I've seen him out dancing one night in the shadows of the blowing trees.  I thought of joining him for a moment but then thought better of it.  What if he expected too much?  What if my moves weren't good enough.

I ate some ice cream instead and had some wine. It feels good to drink wine sometimes.  I've seen Man Downstairs carry in what looked like a bottle of wine, and later on, I swear I heard the most desperate moaning.  Should I go down and check on him?  What if someone tricked him by filling his wine with red water and arsenic?!  That happened to a friend of mine.  They said he moaned before he died and they found him with his hands clawed at his belly and his face screwed up into an eternal scream.  I wouldn't want Man Downstairs to scream eternally!  Imagine trying to rent it out after that!

I will not ask much from my renters, just short showers, and no using the washer or dryer at night or in the very early morning. 

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