Ali Griswold

So I go back to Alex and Georgia.

I say, hey guys, I see your friends moved in, but maybe you could remind them about the shower.

They tell me that they're seeing their friends for dinner in a few weeks, and they can bring it up then.

In the meantime, they come over to my flat to sort out a problem we're having in the building, just in time to see one of their friends step into the shower.

Alex and Georgia press their faces to my double glazed window.

That's Pete, said Alex.

That's all of Pete, said Georgia.

I suggested this problem was more urgent than dinner, and maybe we could send them a text.

A few days later, I'm sitting on my couch when I see it.

It is a historic day in my flat.

The curtain is going up.

It is like the opposite of the Berlin Wall falling.

I text all my friends the news.

A few weeks later, Alex stops by and he knocks on my door.

He tells me that he's been over to the friend's for dinner and they were looking at photos of the listing of the flat from when it was up for sale when he noticed something odd about the kitchen.

In the kitchen, you can see the fridge and on the fridge, there is distinctly a single piece of paper.

So Alex zoomed all the way in on the photo, and there, blurry but unmistakable, in all of its awkward apologetic glory, was my note.

Not lost, not unread, but displayed in a place of honor for everyone to see.

Thank you.