There are people living in our condominium building who apparently would rather live with Husband and me then wherever they currently reside.
I know this to be true because about once a week, someone attempts to open our front door. There’s nothing quite like minding my own business and then hearing someone slip a key into our lock and try to wrestle the door open.
I love jumping out of my skin, thank you very much.
One time, it was an older woman in her bathrobe. I’m assuming she was returning from the pool. Husband thought it would be best to simply watch through the door’s peephole as she struggled to unlock the door. I encouraged him to open the door and help her figure out more quickly that she was trying to enter the wrong unit. She was terribly apologetic.
Another time, it was a family of three, who appeared quite befuddled when I opened the door. More apologies.
Still another time, a woman holding a large package and talking on her cell phone jostled the door. I walked up just in time to hear her say, “Oh wait. This is the wrong unit!”
And, yet another time—actually several other times—it’s been a cute, cute, little old lady with a very thick accent (what nationality, I could not say). Today, she tried five keys before I finally opened the door and asked if I could help her.
“Oh!” She exclaimed, absolutely surprised to see me. “I must have the wrong door. I so sorry! So sorry!” She turned around and headed for the elevator before I could introduce myself. Why not be on a first-name basis with the person who wants to live with me?
The best part of this story? The large unit number displayed on the door right next to the keyhole. I guess I always thought that if a person walks up to a unit and doesn’t recognize the number on the door, then he/she would continue searching for a door with a number he/she recognizes.
Very presumptuous of me.