Golden Moon

Death of a Baseball Cap

I had spoken maybe 20 words to him in the year he had lived below me.  Jeb, or maybe it was Jeff, had first introduced himself by peaking around the corner as I was mid-flight up the stairs, torn box wobbling between my dainty arms. It was the fifth of April, my move in day, but the sun against my back made it feel more like August. I quickly tried to hide the sweat seeping through from my bra line whilst I brushed him off with a friendly nod. He hadn’t budged when I returned back down the stairs.