It was perfect in every way. Looking back on it, he’d agree.
The sun shining outside and wind sending twists of trash and leaves into the freshly swept hallway.
The sound of someone loading the washer at the end of the hallway - beating him to it placing his laundry on hold yet again.
The dropping of his keys. The topper. Subtle, yet without equal in the minuscule arc of the evening.
“God damn keys,” he mutters as he bends to retrieve the ring and enter his apartment.
And this, the best part of all, had to be timed by the Gods above for maximum effect. The act had to be executed on the mark. Grace and style didn’t enter into it.
Foot kicks keys.
A stumble step forward to try to stop then from skidding further ahead.
Hands claw and miss the glistening ring, of course.
And, queue laundry room door. It’s arc perfect and firm. The solid wood frame supporting it’s weight as it swings out on it’s silver hinges and comes into contact with the soft, blond head before it.
A wince of pain and our protagonist clamps his eyes shut tight as he reaches up and clamps the throbbing scalp.
He drops to one knee - directly onto the key ring that lays on the tile of the hallway.