the man upstairs

He is a large man who walks heavily. I know his schedule better than I know most of my friends' schedules: up at six (I am now also up at six), in the bathroom for twenty minutes, then back and forth across what I estimate is the full length of his flat for another twenty, then out. He returns around seven in the evening. I have never seen him. I know the sound of his footsteps the way I know my mother's voice. Last week something heavy fell, late at night, around eleven. Then silence. Then the footsteps again, somewhat altered — slower, more careful, as if navigating around the fallen thing. I thought about going up to ask if he was okay. I didn't. He was fine, clearly — he left at six the next morning as usual. But I thought about it.