A young heir to a yogurt fortune just moved into my building. He is always wearing cashmere white hoodies. Reads a lot of Anne Carson. I see him in the elevator, and he looks up from his paperback. Our eyes meet for a millisecond. His are brown, deep brown, geological brown. Brown like the kind of brown that comes from a quarry.

The young yogurt heir leaves at six. I think he works at Accenture, and has calls with India in the mornings. I see him in the elevator as the sun rises, and he holds his phone. Caseless.

Our apartment building is in Chicago, by the lake. Forty-seven stories. The building has glass windows that are tinted so you can watch the sun rise without burning your eyes. Or that’s what I’ve heard. My apartment faces the city, to the west, and the young yogurt heir’s apartment faces the water. I’ve heard it’s possible to see porpoises. I don’t know if there are porpoises in Lake Michigan, but I imagine it’s possible a stray porpoise has swum into Lake Michigan at least once. At least, I like to imagine the young yogurt heir seeing porpoises every morning as he opens his eyes.

The young yogurt heir runs on Thursdays, at seven, after work. The gym is on the third floor of our building, and the treadmills face the lake. The young yogurt heir wears black running shorts. When he runs, he stands up straight, as if someone is watching him run, or as if he knows that I am watching him run.

In the evenings, the young yogurt heir meditates. We live on the same floor. When I walk by his apartment, I hear a man with a testosterone-laced voice talking about grass. This is very beautiful, to think of the young yogurt heir doing this, perhaps doing it naked, even.

We’re so close. I am literally ten feet from the young yogurt heir as I write this. But we seem so far apart. If you asked me what he is doing right now, I couldn’t tell you. I mean, I could guess, but I really couldn’t tell you. Not for sure.

The young yogurt heir was crying in the elevator yesterday. It was probably five forty-five in the afternoon, after work, and he was holding a Tumi bag between his legs. The young yogurt heir turned his face to the elevator wall, which was black and flecked with isosceles triangles. This was a popular interior elevator design in the late nineties, when I think our building was built.

When the young yogurt heir was crying his mouth looked absolutely fine, and so did his eyes, but he was still crying. It’s possible to tell when people are crying even if they look OK. I touched the young yogurt heir’s shoulder. He flinched. His hoodie was cashmere, and white. It had a braided thing around the perimeter of the hood, and I imagined this made him look like Jesus — or at least medieval — when it was on. I caught a piece of dyed goat hair between my fingers when I took my hand away, and I rolled it on my thumb for the rest of the elevator ride.

The elevator stopped, and he went down the hall. The bag was on his back — one strap. He opened his door when I was two feet behind him, and I saw a line of light grow on the hallway carpet. I stood for a second, watching the light slip back as the door closed, and then I opened my door, too.

Author’s Note: Yogurt was recently voted New York State’s official snack. Greek yogurt sales grew by 2500% between 2006 and 2011.