At night, we hear him strut his stuff on the dancefloor of our tabletop. We wonder if he’s channelling A Day at the Races or A Night at the Opera, steel toe boots against hardwood older and wiser than us. He’s the only one to have never received a noise complaint. We wish we could see him, bet he’d take our breaths away, but it’s okay because he found us, or we found him, or we all found each other. His leather jacket draped on the chair underneath the window when we moved in, not an assertion of dominance but an invitation to be embraced by it. He takes care of us. Our faucet gurgles, the landlord ghosts us, but then it stops, and then we find his blue handkerchief wrapped around the pipe. Our heating bursts, the landlord leaves us to shiver, huddled together, and then we put our phones on the hardwood and carousel Somebody to Love and Don’t Stop Me Now and Good Old Fashioned Lover Boy, and then the kitchen fills with a quilted warmth. When we hunt jobs he dims the lights so we’ll remember to sleep, but we just huddle in our one bedroom and listen to him dance. Sometimes we harmonise Bohemian Rhapsody for him. We wonder if his aura is red like life or pink like sex or indigo like serenity, feel it seep into us when we share his leather gloves, when we attach keys to our carabiners and imagine his attached to leather-chapped Levis. We wish we could kiss him, bet he’d rock our worlds, but it’s okay because we kiss each other, and when the landlord won’t fix our broken window we reach out and hold the sun he kissed and touched underneath, the moon where he cried and loved. And when the landlord ups the rent, and we lose the jobs, we huddle on our tabletop in the serene night air, and we dance, loud for the neighbours, the landlord, for ourselves. We wonder if he’s dancing with us, bet he’s real fine under a kitchen-light disco ball, but it’s okay because we take turns wearing his leather jackets, and we kiss each other and remember he is still here, because we are here.