Matt stops abruptly at the bottom of the steps. Thursday. Recycling gets picked up today. The blue recycling can sits at the bottom of the wooden staircase. Boxes, Monster cans, and Gatorade bottles poke out above the rim at all angles. He grabs the handle and half carries, half drags the can to the end of the shared driveway. He plops the can down on the curb. An empty Gatorade bottle tumbles out and rolls across the sidewalk. Lemon Lime. He scoops it up and stuffs the bottle into the overstuffed can.

“You should separate your bottles, cans, and boxes.” Traci, his downstairs neighbor. Or as Matt likes to call her, The Bitch Downstairs.

Traci stands on the shared walkway in her thin blue bathrobe. Mud brown hair in a messy bun on top of her head. Arms crossed tight, bitch face cranked to eleven.

Matt puts on his best fake smile. “We have single stream recycling, Traci. It all goes into the same truck. They sort it at the recycling center.” He fishes his truck keys out of his pocket.

Traci rolls her eyes.

Nailed it. “Have a nice day, neighbor.” He doesn’t wait for a response and bee lines for his truck.

Matt stabs the key into his old F-150. The engine cranks slowly before catching. Might be time for a new battery. Matt doesn’t remember when he last put a battery in this old bitch. He backs out of the driveway, Traci still standing on the walkway, staring him down. Arms still crossed. Fucking A. He gives her a wave as he chuckles to himself. She turns and stomps back to her apartment.

“Psycho bitch.” He drives off.

Matt found this place over a year ago. A two story single family home converted into two apartments. The rent was cheap enough for this area of Jersey. ‘Only an hour from New York City,’ the landlord kept crowing. Matt didn’t care, he worked a bit closer at Big Gary’s Machine Shop. A short fifteen minute commute from here. The neighborhood was quiet. Nice. Traci kept to herself at first. He had been moved in and settled for at least a week before he had seen her. About his age. Attractive enough, a bit skinny. Old Joe next door said she worked from home.

Two months ago, Big Gary cut a couple of chuckle heads loose. Matt picked up the extra workload. That meant some late nights. He would come home and leave the trash cans out until the morning. Too tired to give a shit. For whatever reason, that did not sit well with Traci.

Fucking garbage cans, of all things.

Matt bounds down the steps two at a time. Bagel in his mouth, coffee splashing out of his travel cup. Snoozing for ten minutes had been a bad idea. Friday. Garbage. He grabs the handle of the big gray can and wheels it to the curb. The blue recycle can still lying there on its side. Empty now. Fuck. Forgot it last night. Hoping Traci hasn’t noticed, Matt grabs the blue can. Too late.