Small World

The familiar sound of Apt. 1’s deadbolt sliding back began the cordial conversation that I had with my neighbor Brandi. Her round face broke into an easy smile upon recognizing me, her eyes shining out from behind stylishly framed glasses with a look of bemused curiosity. Her five and a half foot frame was roundly filled out, though not to distressing proportions, and was clad in comfortable looking, though stylish, clothes. She was shorter than me, forced to look up to address me directly, yet there was no sense of inferiority in our engagement. Leaning in a bit, she listened politely as I stumbled through the particulars.

“So I have this assignment to do for my writing class,” I began, reeling off my pre-rehearsed spiel as she nodded sagaciously. Turns out she had taken a creative non-fiction writing class at St. Lawrence University, from which she graduated last year. Falling into easy conversation about her work, she struck me as exceedingly normal, the kind of person filling in the cracks in society between the weirdoes, degenerates, geniuses, and over-achievers. Her kindness did not seem to be rendered out of any sense of necessity or politeness, but came naturally as well.

“What is your last name?” I asked, feeling silly for having to ask my neighbor such a basic question. “Pestka,” she replied. Alarms of recognition sounded in my brain: “Are you related to Sherri and Don Pestka?” I inquired. “Yeah, they’re my parents.” Reddening, I couldn’t help but laugh. “They’re members at the gym where I work,” I explained, and she soon got to laughing herself. Despite the semi-dimness of her small nearly windowless apartment, I couldn’t help but feel that the entire room was filled with a warmth and comfort by this laugh, bouncing off the walls and filling the hallway where I leaned against the door frame. “What a small world,” she remarked. I couldn’t help but agree.