Out for Delivery
It’s quarter to eleven Sunday night when someone knocks on my apartment door. I’m awake and online, trying to eke out another three hundred words on an article I’ve been struggling with all day, and the last thing I need is an interruption. This piece needs to be on my editor’s desk first thing Monday morning or it won’t make the deadline for next week’s issue of Style. Who the hell could be bothering me at this hour? I’m tempted not to answer.
But I’m the only guy living upstairs—the apartment across the hall from mine houses a quartet of giggling college girls who think it’s cute their neighbor is young and gay, and the other two apartments are rented by elderly women who frequently ask me to change light bulbs or hook up their DVD players. It’s the thought of one of t
