Albert watched through the window of his fourth floor apartment as she unloaded the groceries from the back of her Oldsmobile. He sighed, and walked away from the window to water the plant he had named after her. If he hurried, he could make his way down to the mailbox while she was on her way into the building, as he thought about doing every Wednesday when she did her grocery shopping, but the thought of speaking to her made him nauseous and his knees quivered uncontrollably. Tonight was going to be the night, he told himself. He was going to ask her to dinner. He would just walk up the stairs and ring her doorbell, and bring her daisies. Just before eight oclock, because he knew she would be home. She was always home for the latest episode of Murder, She Wrote, as he knew because he could hear the theme song blaring through his paper-thin ceiling, every Wednesday at eight oclock. He ironed his khakis in an attempt to look just perfect for the occasion, and ran a comb through the non-existing hair on his head.He could hear her walking up the stairs, and Albert imagined her popping popcorn for her favorite television show, and washing up from a long day at the coffee shop. He had never actually been inside the coffee shop, but instead watched her work from outside the large window. He watched all the other customers inside construction workers on lunch breaks, businessmen sitting alone with the New York Times, and the ladies who play Bridge and flaunt their new manicures all sipping cappuccinos that she had poured, and devouring French Toast that she had gracefully carried to the table. Tonight was his chance to speak to her like the men who drink her coffee, only this would be different. After all, he had even picked her daisies. He trembled just thinking about it, and thought diligently about how he should introduce himself. He walked into his bedroom to search through his closet for the perfect shirt to wear when eight oclock ap...
