The Neighbours

Tailor's POV:

It has been nearly a week since we moved into our new apartment. The excitement of starting fresh in a new environment is still palpable, but I must admit, it's been a transition filled with both anticipation and apprehension. Just yesterday, my landlord casually mentioned that our neighbors, who had been off on vacation, are set to return soon.

Our neighbors are an elderly couple, both gracefully embracing the golden years of life as they approach the age of 50 or older. They have a son who studies abroad, pursuing his dreams while they enjoy the tranquility of retirement. Having both retired from well-paying jobs, they appear to be financially secure, which, in theory, should make for a pleasant living situation.

However, upon hearing about them, they were not exactly what I expected. My landlord had casually warned me, "Mrs. Señorpizza is a scary neat freak. She's the type who would knock on the doors of all the residents' flats at 4 a.m., stirring them from their peaceful slumber. She has an insatiable urge to ensure that everything is in order; she insists that they dust and arrange their shoe racks, which are often kept outside each flat. And it won't matter how lucky you think you are—she keeps knocking until the resident complies with her cleanliness standards."

The Next Morning

As dawn broke, bringing with it the promise of a calm day, it was still engulfed in darkness when I woke up to the sound of our calling bell ringing incessantly. The noise was sharp, jarring, and continuous, invading the peaceful cocoon of our slumber.

Still groggy, I rushed to the door to unlock it, all the while the bell rang with relentless urgency. I could hear it, even as I fumbled with the latch. It seemed that my neighbor had no intention of letting up, even as the sound of the door unlocking filled the hallway.

"Um, Mrs. Señorpizza," I called out, cautiously peeking through the door's crack, "may I know what you want at this hour?" Part of me was still hoping this was some peculiar dream that I would wake up from any moment.

"Suzuki Tailor," she retorted, her voice sharp with an undertone of authority that left little room for negotiation, "I'll excuse you this time because it's your first day here. But look at the time! It is now 4:03 a.m.! How can you be so careless? You are already late! Start working, young lady." Her tone was firm, reminiscent of a school teacher addressing a wayward student.

"Okay," I managed to reply, the words spilling from my lips with a hint of uncertainty. I felt a mix of confusion and resignation wash over me as I began to prepare myself to tackle the shoes scattered haphazardly in their rack outside. With every shoe I touched, I couldn't help but ponder how this living arrangement might affect my newfound independence. The early morning call to action felt overwhelming, yet somehow, it also hinted at the peculiar camaraderie and challenges that awaited me in this new chapter of my life. Would I be ready for the whirlwind of tidiness that was Mrs. Señorpizza? Only time would tell.

As I stepped out into the chilly morning air, the faint light of dawn just beginning to break, I was met by the stern figure of Mrs. Señorpizza, hands on her hips and a look of disapproval etched across her face. The entrance of our shared building seemed to magnify her imposing demeanor, and I couldn't shake the feeling of being summoned to the principal's office for a transgression I wasn't even aware I had committed.

"Look at this mess," she said, gesturing dramatically toward the shoe rack. Her eyes squinted at the various pairs strewn about—the mismatched sandals, the pair of sneakers that had seen better days, and my own recent acquisitions which I had carelessly tossed aside in my haste.

With a resigned sigh, I kneeled down. "Right, Mrs. Señorpizza. I understand," I replied, trying to match her energy with a semblance of enthusiasm despite the early hour.

"First rule of living in our building: cleanliness is next to godliness!" she proclaimed, and I could hear the harried sigh escaping from my own lips as I sorted through the shoes. "You need to create order in your surroundings. Let's see, these need to be arranged from left to right, in size order."

"Yes, ma'am," I muttered, half-listening as I wrestled with a particularly stubborn flip-flop that seemed to be wedged beneath a wave of sneakers.

"Oh, not like that! What kind of example are you setting for the community?" she scolded, swooping in with the efficiency of a drill sergeant.

After what felt like an eternity of meticulous cleaning, I finally completed the task of dusting and arranging the shoe rack in our entryway. This wasn't just a simple chore; it was a laborious process during which I felt the weight of every single muscle in my body being scrutinized and criticized. Each time I moved, whether it was bending to reach a dusty corner or adjusting the alignment of the shoes, I could hear the sharp remarks flying my way, reminding me that my best efforts were never quite good enough.

This daily ritual became a source of frustration for me. No matter how much effort I put into maintaining an immaculate living space, it seemed that the shoe rack was never considered satisfactory or tidy enough. I could meticulously organize each pair of shoes, making sure they were lined up perfectly and sparkling clean, and yet, every single morning, the same voice would demand that I redo the job, even if the shoe rack looked as pristine as a hospital ward.

I often found myself questioning the logic of it all. How could something that sparkled with cleanliness and order still be deemed unacceptable? It was as if the shoe rack was a never-ending project that could always be improved. The repetition of these scoldings, paired with the seemingly unending cycle of cleaning, left me feeling demoralized and exasperated. Despite the environment being impeccably tidy, it felt like I was stuck in an endless loop of cleaning and criticism, and each day felt like Groundhog Day, with no sign of relief on the horizon.