While in my apartment, the thought of another apartment arose.

It wasn't the muffled sound of a toilet flushing from the opposite side of the wall or the soft, sudden rattling of dishes somewhere the other side of my kitchen. And it wasn't the murmur of low voices in the dark, close by, but not in my bedroom. Perhaps it was the recollection of the brief chance encounter in the first floor foyer by the mailboxes or remembering the smell of exhaust in the underground parking that morning of the car that must have left just before me.

Sometimes I think it's just the feeling that someone else is there, close by on the other side of the wall, like when you know you are being stared at from across a room, but can't actually catch the other person looking at you.

Sitting there, warming my hands on the cup of coffee I had just bought up the street on Davie, I realized how quiet it was in the apartment today. No leaf blowers whining outside, the garbage trucks had made their rounds much earlier that morning, and even the roar of the taxis making time in the alley outside my apartment, were few and far between at this time of day.

I couldn't help but think that I had the fifth floor all to myself. The only hint that someone else from my floor might be around was the lingering fragrance of cologne in the elevator that I noticed on my way back up from buying coffee. By now I knew that it belonged to the fellow at the opposite end of the corridor in 501. (It's funny how you can trace the paths of people in the building from the odors that remain in the elevator. There is the smell of the pizza that was delivered moments ago, and another particularly strong perfume that must belong to a woman on one of the other floors).

However, as the door of the elevator opened up onto the corridor of my floor, there hadn't been the familiar refrains of Sarah McLachlan echoing from his end of the hallway, which usually signals his presence. How many times can a person listen to the same cd over and over again? Quite a few, evidently.