He was short, relatively unremarkable in all ways, save for the color of his eyes. They were a vibrant green so bright it seemed unnatural; I had thought him forgettable until he took off his sunglasses. I’d thought it was just a little strange that he was wearing sunglasses at eleven oclock at night, but some people have their habits, and I know I have enough of my own, so I wasn’t really up to debating with myself whether or not his queerities were worth much thought.
He said he lived down the hall, in 4F, that he’d moved in three nights ago, which I could believe if I had to, because three nights ago, I wasn’t here, so I had no idea what was going on and what the other inhabitants of 67 Potting Lane got up to.
I kept staring, most likely far beyond what was considered polite, and then I had to blush when he repeated himself. “Normally I know people ask for a cup of sugar, when it comes to being a new neighbor,” he was saying, “but I noticed your feeders on the balcony, so I thought you might have a little to spare.”
“Sure, sure,” I said, nodding, and I left the door open and headed toward the balcony, moving to get him the birdseed he was asking for. When I turned around to ask him how he was liking the neighborhood, he was still standing in the doorway, looking a little hesitant, peering around with polite curiosity. “You can come in, you know. Since we’re being neighborly and all,” I said, and I fancied that such a polite person might be wonderful to get to know, considering the decline in the quality of good neighbors in the past few years.
“Thank you,” he said, those bright green eyes lighting up, “for inviting me in.”
And that’s how I met the vampire next door.