I’m not embarrassed so much as nervous.
Now bear with me on this. I’m a writer, and I stay up till six or seven a.m., then sleep till two p.m. As long as my waking hours are productive, it’s okay.
Just as I was rousing myself, I hear this pounding on the front door, augmented by “Hellooooooooooooooo?” WTF? I thought.
Uncharacteristically, I was naked: Mr. Rilch took a moment to ravish me before he left for work, and I figured, why get dressed just to go back to sleep? So I ducked into the bathroom to fetch my robe before telling them they had the wrong apartment, whoever they were.
The bathroom doorway is at the top of the stairs.
I’ve long predicted this moment, but I always naively thought that it would happen with one of Mr. Rilch’s friends or work mates. They can be gentlemanly when the situation calls for it, and he gives off enough alpha possessiveness to prevent any, “Hey, I saw JTL’s wife comin’ out of the shower and…”
So I’m just in the doorway when the door to the outside opens. I don’t remember what I said; it wasn’t a scream, but it was a definite signal to back off. “Oh, I’m sorry!” says whoever it is.
Oh god. Oh god. I pull the robe on and go downstairs to see if they’ve gone away. I was still assuming that it had something to do with the new tenants next door, who are still in the slow process of moving in. But how the fuck does this person have a key?
He’s still there. How he knew I was looking through the spyhole, I don’t know, but he claims to be here to fix the faucet. I tell him to hold on while I call Mr. Rilch.
No answer. He usually turns his phone off while working. I call building management. No answer from them! WTF? I am not letting this guy in. Someone would have told me if we were “getting our faucet fixed.”
I go back to the door. He says, “Your husband called me.” That’s not enough of an endorsement. He says, “The leaky faucet in the downstairs bathroom.”
We don’t have a leaky faucet in the downstairs bathroom. The seal around the base of the kitchen sink faucet is a bit loose, but that’s not the downstairs bathroom; it’s just downstairs. We also have a closet door that came off its roller, and a towel rack upstairs that fell down. But even if it was any of those things, I’d still know if someone was going to be here.
The guy looks kind of familiar, but that means nothing.
I tell him sorry, I can’t reach anyone to confirm that he’s supposed to be there. He says, “Okay, sorry,” and goes away.
God damn! Well, I’m glad I don’t have to go out today! Motherfucker, opening my apartment door! I don’t care how much he thought no one was home! Follow up with a phone call if you’re uncertain! Or call first! I have no idea if this guy was legit, and I’m not letting anyone in if I’m not 100% on them!
Even if he was for real, I can’t face having someone in here, fixing stuff, after they’ve fucking seen me naked! I feel like I’m starring in a raunchy housewife joke from the fifties!
Jesus Christ, it’s my fucking apartment. I should be able to be naked without fear of reprisal. Now I’m afraid to take my shower; the guy might come back while I’m in there! He opened the door with a key. What the fucking fuck.
Who knew he’d walk around to the back yard? How were we supposed to know to shut the blinds on the sliding door? Yep, not just a window’s worth of view. The whole frickin’ wall is glass. :eek: He was more than a little surprised and embarrassed.