I can usually sleep through the noises that accompany morning: cars turning on right outside of my apartment, the banging of the pipes and the heaters through the walls, the slamming of the security door, twice a week the noise of the trash truck coming to empty the dumpster at the end of the parking lot. (To which, coincidentally, my bedroom window nearly overlooks).

On the other hand, some dingleberry ringing my apartment’s buzzer at 7-isham I can’t really escape.

I’m glad no one answered when I mumbled “Wha…?” into the voice-box a minute later, dreary beyond comprehension and wearing only a bath towel.

For one thing, who wants to see me wearing only a bath towel? And for another thing, this place reeks. Time to change the litter box.