A flower bouquet in his hand and all dressed up, Michael walks through the long corridor that leads to Apartment 932 on the 9th floor. Raising his right arm, he smells his armpit to check if his deodorant is working. Almost. It doesn’t matter anymore. He does not carry deodorant anyway. He does have a pack of Tic Tacs though. He decides to chew a mint from it. He later tosses another one in his mouth, just to be on the safe side.
The gloomy long hallway is lit by a few light bulbs, one flickering. Under the dim light, Michael tries to read the door numbers. 926, 928, 930. Light seems to be coming out of the next door. Suspicious at that, he approaches the ajar door, his legs trembling. He can hear his heart beating. After fixing his tie, he takes a deep breath and raises his hand to knock.
The door opens before his hand reaches it. Lynda’s mother stands there, furious. She gives him a look as if Michael is a criminal caught in the midst of the crime. Stricken by fear, he quickly extends his hand, offering the flower bouquet that he has brought for Lynda.
“It’s for you,” he says, hoping for some leniency. There is, however, no change in her menacing glare. He can feel sweat coming out of every hair on his scalp. Having his desperate search for words failed, he gulps.
Lynda’s dad saves the moment by hastily appearing from the side, blocking the gaze of Lynda’s mom. He still has not completely put on his jacket.
“There is my favorite man,” he says, taking the flower bouquet with his left hand. “What beautiful flowers!” While sniffing them, he puts his other arm through the sleeve of his jacket. “They smell good too.”
Lynda’s mom shuts the door behind them. With her gone, Michael lets out a relaxed breath. Having gained his speech ability back, he asks, “Is Lynda home?”
“She’s alright,” her dad replies while guiding Michael outside by a gentle push on his back.
Her dad’s out-of-nowhere assurance distresses Michael. He checks the new messages on his cell phone.
“There’s nothing to worry about,” Dad continues. “Oh, is that a Nokia? I thought they’re extinct. Can I take a look?”
Michael takes his gaze off his cell phone. “I… I…”
Dad reaches over and takes the phone, using a bit of force.
“What do you say we first have a little chat, man to man. Or should I say de hombre a hombre?” he says, flashing a big PR smile.
“Why in Spanish?” Michael finds himself asking, a bit confused, a bit offended.
“No reason. Let’s just go for a walk. What do you say, big boy?” Lynda’s dad responds while walking Michael away.
“Is she OK?” Michael asks, looking back in the direction of Lynda’s apartment.
“In reflection, you do look a bit like Michael B. Jordan,” her dad says, maintaining the push on Michael’s back. “Have you considered acting as a profession?”
His resisting legs finally surrender. Michael walks with Lynda’s dad through the long corridor toward the elevators. His eyes, however, cannot give up, turning back to the apartment every few moments.