Fire Alarms.

I stare hesitantly at the fire alarm. It’ll be the fourth time this month the fire alarm went off.

There’s families and people with mobility issues in my building.

This’ll be a false alarm. All twelve stories of the building will hate this. Hell, if it wasn’t me, I’d hate this.

Everyone in my building is probably eating dinner. It’s gonna piss off everyone here.

It’s not that simple, though. I just really need to see her again.

She’s maybe a year or two younger than me. Short, raven-black hair. The first time I presume she was coming back from work — blouse, black dress pants, and one of those backpacks you’d actually take backpacking — I don’t remember the brand. Key card on her belt. No name tag, unfortunately.

In all fairness, two of the four fire alarms weren’t me. A man on the fifth floor SOMEHOW burned a frozen pizza around 8pm a couple weeks ago. Nice guy, just not terribly bright.

The other time was last Monday — someone didn’t know that metal doesn’t go in the microwave. They were fine, but they learned a valuable lesson about properly reheating Chinese food.

Both times I didn’t pull the alarm. So, I arguably have cover.

When the alarm sounded, I had to hastily get my cats into their carrier — yet that still delayed my exit by several minutes. I’ll need to throw the cats in their carrier. They’re too big to be in the same carrier now anyway. But come on. That’s a game of Sophie’s Choice I don’t want to play.

To my luck, this woman was curious about my cats. I sat on the sidewalk where their carrier sat. They mewed in protest of their confinement.

“Awww, poor kitties.”

“Surprisingly, they’re not fans of any stage of this event.”

She laughed. She smiled at me.

“How old are they?”

“They’re two — a little over two.”

“They’re still babies!

I told her their names, and we chatted about when we’d be allowed back in the building. Nothing impactful, nothing of substance, but it everything felt right in those moments.

Next thing we know, practically our entire building crams into one of three sluggish elevators to resume their primetime programming.

She got off on the fourth floor. I got off on the ninth.

The rest of that evening was carved out to writing a virtually insurmountable assignment. Ten pages due by the end of that week. Despite the urgency of my work, I still found myself away from my keyboard, wandering around my apartment. Smiling.

How can someone be the new center of my attention? All we have in common is cats and our disdain to fire alarms?

After I realized how much I was aimlessly walking around my bathroom, I buckled down and got some more writing done. I promised myself I’d at least introduce myself at the next fire alarm.

Seemed easy enough.

The next time the fire alarm sounded, we did not speak. After the usual dance with the cats to get them to safety, I cobble down nine flights of stairs and stand outside as fire truck lights tessellate my street on a cool April evening. My mind immediately transposed this to be a romantic setting.

I stand close to the intersection. Hypothetically as far away from the fire as possible. Hypothetically also to give me the best line of sight to see her again.

And just my luck, there she is. She’s wearing a navy blue hoodie and soccer shorts, what I assume are cleats, too. She could explain them to me — I’d feign interest — as long as we’re talking.

“Is that a good museum?”

An inquiry that caught me by surprise. It was from the nice Ethiopian man who lives downstairs from me. Uncertain what he was talking about, I look down to see my “Museum of Contemporary African Art in London” shirt, which he was pointing toward.

“Oh yes, it had some very fascinating pieces.”

“Many pieces from Ethiopia?”

“You know, I went so long ago that I can’t totally recall. I’m sure there was. I just recall really enjoying it.”

The man smiled, and we got to talking about east Africa, namely his upbringing and, of course, food. Before I could sneak a look behind the man, she was out of sight.

A corps of firemen left the building, and the tallest — presumably their leader — came out and gestured that we could go back inside.

I kept peeking around for her, yet no luck. My downstairs neighbor and I continued to talk as we went in the elevator together. No chance to say hello to her, but at least I have a good restaurant recommendation.

Days go by and I can’t get the prospect of seeing her again out of my head. Every time I had to leave the apartment, I dress to impress. Polo shirt to check the mail, button-down to make entrances and exits into the building, nothing stained or dirty, hair looking at least decent — even if I hadn’t bathed yet that day.

It got to the point where my roommate was perplexed by my attitude.

“It’s a fire, Sam. Why are you putting on a dress shirt?”

“Could be chilly outside.”

“Sam, it’s July.”

Back to this moment in front of the alarm — the longer I stand here, the more likely that a neighbor will spot me.

I should just do it. Muscle memory take over.

The plastic handle feels cheap, but the mechanism is hard to pull. I close my eyes and breathe through my nose. Before I know it, cacophony and flashing lights flood the hallway.

As I rush down the fire escape, I’m overwhelmed with both excitement and regret. It’s more uncomfortable than I like. The stairs seem to take longer to hike down than ever before.

Outside my building, my neighbors stand around and fester in aggravation that their evening had been so abruptly disrupted.

Examining the crowd of frustrated faces, I don’t see her anywhere. Just a spattering of familiar looking people who I had either said hello to or made awkward eye contact with as they hopped onto the elevator. An eerie feeling of self-awareness fomented as neighbors looked at me. They know I did this, I couldn’t escape the thought. Worse, I imagined that they know WHY I did this.

To my relief, there’s a taller woman at the edge of the block. From afar it looks like her, but I’ve made that mistake before — with some grouchy strangers scolding me from down the street as a result.

I do my best to look down on the sidewalk rather than look up at her. I wasn’t sure it was her. Here I was playing it so cool that I wasn’t even seeing if it was her.

Looking back to the side, I glare at the evacuated building — with her not too far off. A man in a blue sweatshirt approaches her. They kiss.

My casual walk toward her slows significantly. The sidewalk in the opposite direction sudddenly becomes much more intriguing.I stand around relishing in my poor decision of pulling the fire alarm. I make eye contact with nobody.

As a couple nights go by, I can’t get over my guilt. I just inconvenienced almost my entire building for the sake of seeing this tall girl from the sixth floor.

It’s 11pm on a balmy Thursday night. My mind still can’t get past her.

She has a boyfriend. It hurts to ruminate, but it’s almost all I can do.

I look at my clock again. 11:02. How is that even possible? I’ve been inconsolable for what feels like two hours, not two minutes.

Breathing exercises — that’s what the shrink says would calm me down. Several shaky breaths later and I’m not much calmer. This always happens the night before work days.

I sit up, feeling groggier than usual, and drink some water. Resume my shaky breaths, and more relief slowly flows through me. Whew, now I can rest.

…

I bet they’re having sex.

…

I sat up as if from a nightmare.

Down the hallway once more, the mechanism is easier to pull this time around.

Maybe the building will think someone on my floor is just an awful cook.