It took a moment for Adam to hear the knocking at the door, let alone answer it. He'd been doing a bit of cleaning on a rare day off, high-end cans covering his ears, blasting Lesbians on Ecstasy directly into his brain. But when at last the music cleared, the final bars of "Tell Me Does She Love the Bass?" fading out into nothingness, he realized what he had been hearing was indeed not part of his own private show. He reached for his mobile, nestled snugly in his pocket, checking for messages from Alex, finding nothing. With furrowed brow he hastily pulled off his headphones, dropping them - and the tiny mp3 player to which they were almost ludicrously connected - to the dark fabric of the sofa as he moved toward the door.
His first glance through the peephole quieted his concerns. He knew that face, and thanked God above it was not the concierge again, come to share news of yet another unpleasant occurrence. He unlocked the door, drawing it wide, trying all the while to remember the man's name.
"Hey-" He began, but quickly cut himself off. Easily he read the concern in the other man's face, the nervous energy he directed toward his clearly pained hand. Black-limned eyes flicked down to where he so delicately touched, unconsciously beginning to assess the situation. "Come in," he said, pulling the door wider still. "I remember you from the power outage. Everything alright?"