a knock at the door survives the echo of the knocking

“You eat steak? Sorry to bother you, eat steak?” He wears a jacket black and green, sneakers. Looks around, twitches. I stare from my hastily donned jeans and cracked door with uncomprehending eyes.
“Do you eat steak? Chicken? Fish? Do you eat meat?” My head shakes no with its own accord, meaning I don’t understand, what are you doing here at my door asking these questions? Are you with the census? Are you selling something poorly? Shake no, I don’t understand, he’s a tweaker I think, robbed a butcher maybe.
“Do you eat meat? You don’t eat meat? You don’t eat meat.” I stare. He glances across to number forty. “There’s nobody here.” He runs back down the stairs and I clumsily climb back to bed.