James really, really attempts to act as 'bachelor male' as possible. He succeeds, he believes, fairly well.
Not as well as his best friend, that boy with the shaggy hair and the seven girlfriends, but he thinks he does alright.
After all, the bespectacled young man gets to see that pretty red-haired girl when he goes outside to fetch his mail. What more could he possibly need?
They've never really spoken. Shared hellos and a 'Nice weather, eh?', but nothing much deeper than shallow small talk. He doesn't even remember her name.
He doesn't even remember asking for her name, and he probably hasn't, the idiot. But in his mind, she's 'flat 107' for all intents and purposes.
She is his lovely, sweet neighbor, and often times he wastes an hour wondering where on earth that poor girl found that tall grease-ball that frequently knocks and pleads, albeit fairly quietly,
through her front door. He supposes that male is some ex-boyfriend or other and maybe 107 is too kind to tell him to bugger off. He'd do it for her, if he only knew her name.
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