not a babysitter

a knock on the door, room number 208. “yes?” no answer. the sound of children running up and down the breezeway. kids messing around, still on hold with tech support, coffee still pleasantly warm and rich.
another knock on the door. “yes, hello?” in that voice i hate from other people, coming from my own mouth. muffled, flustered woman’s voice on the other side of the door. “this is your neighbor, um..” “yes? what can i do for you?” a little sharper than i intended, but my point was made. more running footsteps. “i was wondering if you could play ball with this little boy?” pull the curtains tighter together in response.