just bear it

The stairwell of this apartment building opens directly onto the sidewalk. There is no door to the building, just a forever-gaping doorway. Anyone, if they liked, could go up the stairs and slip poison-laced envelopes under my door. They never do, though; I check every day. I think that if there were any interesting people in this city, they would pick my name at random out of the phone book, thinking, "that sounds like the name of a person whose life needs a poison-laced envelope under the door." I'd wake up to my usual 7am alarm, heartbeat, and on my way to the bathroom, see it lying there. A blank, pale grey envelope. I'd pick it up, heedless of the poisoned lace, and tear off the end. "I have your phone number," the note inside would read. "I could easily utterly disrupt your life. You should really be worried." Signed, an interesting person.

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