You drop a small piece of food on the floor, and decide to kick it under the oven/couch/whatever because you canât be bothered to pick it up. As youâre walking away, you hear a very quiet âThank you!â from under it.
âNo problem,â I say, the words passing out of my mouth on autopilot, before my brain engages and I freeze.
I turn, and look at the fridge. It seems to be the same fridge that was here when I moved in.Â
I mean, Iâm also kind of embarrassed. I never do that, I know thatâs how you get roaches, but my back hurts so bad that getting up and down is next to impossible, much less bending over. âUm, you holding up okay down there?â I ask.
There was silence.Â
âI know that weâre probably the only apartment in the building that doesnât have a bug problem. Thatâs, well, thatâs you, right?â
Again, silence. But I know I heard it.
âListen, I canât really bend over right now, but if youâre down there and hungry, like, thereâs half a rotisserie chicken in there thatâs about to go bad. I was going to throw it away, but if you could use it-â
âYesssss. Please.âÂ
Well. Whatever it is, itâs well-mannered, anyway.




















