The other week, I found myself in a fancy building on lower Fifth Ave., where an ex-boyfriend's parents live. We broke up I guess it was six years ago now? And I haven't, for obvious reasons, been back to the building. Why would I? But he and his brother were having a party in their parents' apartment, and I was invited. So I went. When I got there, one of the doormen greeted me. "How are you!" he exclaimed. "Haven't seen you in awhile." He grasped my hand. "Good to see you." I said likewise. Then I thought: It's been six years! Why does—how could—he remember me?
Sometimes I think I would like to live in a doorman building. Packages! Then again, I usually work from home, so I'm here to get packages. Oh, well, security. But I have a dog. She's a good guard. Hmm! Someone to open the door for me and hail a cab? Eh.
It's funny how six years can go by and the doorman will say nothing about why he hasn't seen you in so long. Their job is to be discreet! It makes me think that I'd be in good hands if, say, I was running an escort business out of my apartment in a doorman building. Which is a really good idea to make money, probably. Maybe I should do that next.
Anwyay, the party was fun, and when I left his shift was over.