Last night I was busy preparing a late-night snack when I heard a rattling at the door. There was the sound of a key being stuck into the lock, twisted back and forth, and removed. The key was then reinserted and rattled again. And again. And again. Thinking this could be my boyfriend after one too many glasses of red wine post-intellectual theory colloquium (is there such a thing?) I went and opened the door.
An attractive, petite, and well-dressed Indian girl on her cell phone stood pertly on the other side. She glanced up at me, gave me a friendly, "Hello!" and walked into my apartment (still talking on the cell.) We stood there a little while, she chatting with her friend, me in my white fluffy bathrobe with bright blue polka dots and sock monkey slippers on my feet, holding a dripping spoon (I had been making a late-night snack as previously mentioned.) At some point it occurred to the smartly dressed socialite that this might not be her apartment! She seemed a bit confused. She looked at the door several times (how odd that the number had not changed!) She paused her cell phone conversation long enough to remark that she must be on the wrong floor. Apparently, she lives on the third floor. I, in my fluffy bathrobe and sock monkey slippers, dwell on the second. We said goodbye (I think I waved the spoon.)
The oddest thing about the incident is that there was never a point where the well-dressed girl ever thought it odd that a complete stranger would be in her apartment wearing such a garish fluffy bathrobe. But maybe I underestimate the power of the polka dot?