Neighborsby Matthew Zingg Mr. Esposito has no front teeth. I believe God just forgot to give him any, the way he speaks, like a wad of clay. It’s no wonder I can’t understand him! But I try. I’ve given him a name. And that’s only half the story, which I’ve been seeing a lot of lately, halves I mean, walking in and out of my building. Ms. Brittle says the body is one part the lesser of our lives, and the other comes with some reward. Everyday (am I ready?) every day another one-armed man walks past my window. All of them tuck the empty jacket sleeve in a pocket, so it’s hard to tell. But I can tell. That’s what bothers me sometimes, the knowing and not wanting to, the half- knowing. It’s not Mr. Esposito or Ms. Brittle. Really it’s the person who lives above me, who brushes his teeth when I brush my teeth, who watches the same TV channels as me. I can hear him up there walking around, flushing the toilet—making love. I’m not sure what it is he wants. |