Mike?

I am not the only one living on the 2nd floor of my building. There is also a guy. His name is Mike.

I am better acquainted with Mike's parents than I am with Mike himself. When I was moving in his mother was here, scrubbing every inch of his apartment with the overbearing love that sends a mother to antiseptic extremes. A nice lady. Chatty, bubbly. She was worried about Mike's stove; it was a gas stove and she was concerned because she'd never had one before and she thought the smell was awfully strong, and did I mind coming over to smell it?

I saw Mike once. It was in September, maybe a week after his mother emerged victorious in the Great Apartment #2 Clean-a-thon. He had a boyish face and a red complexion, and kindly told me to use the empty shelves outside his door if I wanted. Said he was quiet and hardworking, and was happy to hear that I was living alone and likely to be quiet as well.

Now. Quiet is one thing. But Mike is so quiet that sometimes I think he might be dead.

That afternoon back in September was the last time I saw Mike. I left him a note shortly thereafer, asking him if he wanted to share wireless internet with me, and received no response. I figured he'd rather anonymously steal from one of the neighbours, which I couldn't blame him for.

Once I heard Mike taking a pee. Our bathrooms share a wall - of course I tried not to listen, because, quite frankly, it was gross. Another time I heard a young woman's voice in the hall, and the jingle of keys. His girlfriend, I assumed.

Besides those two occurrences, the only reason I know Mike is not dead is because a pair of shoes appear and disappear on the botton shelf outside his apartment door. Broken in airwalks; green and black, and probably stinky.

We've been living on the same floor of a house for almost three months and I have only a few measley pieces of evidence to verify Mike's mere existence. Troublesome, indeed.

What to do about Mike. I hope he is okay. If something terrible had happened, and his body was rotting away next door, surely I would smell it? Should I go over and check on him? Would that be creepy of me?

Maybe Mike just likes his space. Maybe he has a rare skin disorder and is too embarrassed to leave the house. Or maybe he's albino and will melt if he sees the sun, so he waits until everyone is asleep before slinking down the stairs and out into the world. On that note, maybe he is a vampire. I better make sure I lock my doors.

Oh, Mike. And here I'm saying you're the weird one? Maybe we should be more worried about me...