Bait
It started in the elevator when I was fifteen. All I knew was the name on her mailbox: I. Jacobs. Her apartment was right across from mine in this tight little corner hallway, and every day that summer when I’d leave to go to work, my door would slam behind me, and seconds later as I walked down the hall to the elevator bay, hers would slam too, my heart would palpitate, my back would sweat, and butterflies would furiously try to break out of the confines of my abdomen. The floors were...