I was Ryan Mercer, thirty-two, radio producer, professional overthinker, and the man in apartment 4C who had once killed a spider in Claire’s bathroom while she stood on the toilet holding a shampoo bottle like a loaded weapon.
Since then, she called me Spider-Man.
Only when she forgot to be guarded.
That morning, she looked at my leaking trash bag and said, “You know most people just take their garbage out. They don’t season the hallway with it.”
“I’m giving the building breakfast,” I said.
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