The Woman In Apartment 3B

A creative writing prompt at a conference last year started as "The woman in apartment 3B," Angelo from New York," and "stalking." I wrote this passage based on the prompt, and it spurred the "Book in 55 Days" attempt. Enjoy!

     I miss her. I wish I could see her one more time, but she sent away a long time ago. Her blonde waves cascading from her head, her sweet smile, her magical honey-and-cinnamon perfume, that wafted around the room, and enraptured everyone around her in a captivating hypnosis.
     Emily has that same perfume. She lives at the end of the hall, and walks past my door to get to and from the elevator every morning and night. I watch her through my peephole most times. Memories of her– long nights, adventures in Long Island. Smells of sweaty people, hot dogs, and car exhaust. The loud music, people laughing and screaming, and motorcycles honking at much bigger cars. Her sweet perfect perfume.
     I turn from my door after Emily has disappeared into the elevator, and my heart sinks as I look around. I begin to cry inwardly, wishing, and hoping. My L.A. apartment is cheap, with peeling paint and and unpacked boxes. The faucet drips throughout the night, the kitchen always smells like burnt popcorn. I much prefer to spend time in apartment 3B, at the end of the hall. I've found that my key works in her lock, too. I like to study the pictures and paintings she's hung on her wall; they're beautiful. I like to look at her little notes– Emily's handwriting is so similar to hers, and its fluidity is soft and sweet. I look at her kitten calendar, so I know where to look for her at concerts and dinner dates.
     Sometimes, I'll steal a hair, a blonde one, from her brush and tie it around my finger. Or, I'll spray her honey-and-cinnamon perfume on my jacket, so those memories will follow me home.