Ooh La La

I live above a French restaurant now. The wide sidewalk outside my front door is bare, but I’ve been imagining it lined with wicker chairs and tables, heaving with diners feasting on oozy cheese and dark wine. The previous tenant left jars of earplugs in the bedrooms and I wonder what it’ll sound like when the din of the bistro fills the street again.

My bedroom is at the top of the house on the third floor (fourth floor if you’re American) and last week I was jolted out of sleep by the door buzzer. Bleary-eyed, I tumbled down the stairs in my nightgown, shoving arms through the sleeves of a sweater so as not to scandalize the mailman. I pulled the door open and smiled my biggest smile under a full mop of overgrown bed head. I must’ve looked ridiculous.

The postman, middle-aged with graying temples, gestured to the parcel he’d considerately left on the stoop and smiled back. “You okay, honey?”

I may not like when strangers call me sweetheart, but a well-intentioned “honey” cuts right through me. “Yes. You?” He nodded and smiled again before continuing on his way. I pushed the door closed and climbed the stairs in my bare, warming feet.