636

As the elevator reached the sixth floor, I stepped off and flipped up my turtleneck to cover my nose and mouth. I didn't care if she said she wasn't contagious, I wasn't taking any chances by breathing freely in her apartment. The poor thing had been sick enough to warrant a trip to the ER and no way did I want to catch that virus. But she needed her laptop, so there I was.

New Girl and I have developed a pretty close friendship. Constantly visiting each other's desks at work. Daily eating lunch together. Spending time together outside of work. The level of comfort allows us to frequently (as in every other sentence) tease each other and be blatantly honest when the truth needs to be told. When sharing a hotel room in New York last month, New Girl had no problem making herself at home in my presence by sleeping pantless. "When you come out of the bathroom, I'm not gonna have any pants on. Just so you're not surprised." This would explain how the following occurred:

I firmly knocked at 636 and waited for New Girl to walk from the bed in her studio apartment to the front door at which I stood. "It's meee," I announced. I heard movement and bare footsteps and then, what was that? It sounded like someone was putting on pants. Yes, first one leg, then the other. (Nice solid doors, huh?)

"What are you putting on pants for????" I asked through the door. "You always take them off when I'm around."

No comment.

The door slowly opened and there stood a 60-year old man . . just smiling, expecting the very look that he found on my face. He looked almost satisfied, knowing that I was humiliated and he had absolutely nothing to be embarrassed of. He was merely answering the knock at his front door.

"Ohmygosh! I could've sworn my friend lived on the sixth floor!"

"It's a big floor. She probably does."

"No . . this is her apartment."

"I'm sorry, but I live here."

Immediately I turned, walked back to the elevators, and found New Girl in the same place she's always been . . 736.