So last night I managed to get into a fight about whether or not I lived in my apartment. Which was not the sort of thing I expected to have to defend to a stranger. The doorbell rang and there, standing at my door proudly, was a woman. She was dressed in non-matching floral print shirt and pants with dark leather sandals on. Her hair, like brillo, was trying to expand to fill all available space, like a dandelion puff out for blood.

I asked, simply, if I could help her. It seemed like the thing to do. She raised one eyebrow at me. She tried to look past me.

“Where is he?” she asked me in a perfectly nice tone. The words alone can sound so harsh, but no it was affably said and taken.

“Uhhh, who?”

“You know, where is he? I need to talk to him,” she told me, and I shrugged, out of clues.

“No one else,” I told her, glancing back to see the cat, “lives here but me.” I wonder if the cat took offense.

“Nooooooooo,” she drew out, starting to look frustrated, “I know he lives here. Hey, did he move out? How long have you lived here?”

“Buncha years.”

“No, no he lives here then, he was here years ago too. Where is he? I need to talk to him.”

I sighed. I glanced behind me again. I glanced behind her, out into the hall. “Who do you think lives here?”

“The guy from the shop?”

I laughed, “He lives upstairs, directly. One floor up, same door.” She was looking for my deli guy, they live upstairs. Simple!

“No, no he doesn’t.” Simple except that she wouldn’t let go of this one. At all.

“Yeah, actually he does. I promise. Just upstairs. That’s where he is, you can go talk to him.”

She shook her head. Thought about it for a minute. Started to speak. Stopped. Mouth clacked shut like those old chocolate milk ads with the wooden dog. Started to speak again. “He isn’t here?” she tried, tentatively.

We went around it again. Then a third time. Neither of us let the impatience sound in our voices. We were polite, smiling the whole time. This wasn’t a bad thing, oh no don’t be silly, we were just sorting out who lived where. If I hadn’t been inside the apartment she thought I didn’t belong to, why this would have been dandy.

Finally, after a full six or so minutes of back and forth she stopped. Looked dazed. Laughed and then grew quiet before laughing again.

“He lives upstairs! Oh! Oh!” she said quickly, the words bursting forth from her like joy, “Not HERE!”

“No, not here,” I agreed with a nod.

“I’m sorry,” she said and waved to me as she walked to the stairs.

“Me too,” I said back, softly, as I closed the door.