A Story About Patience, Principle, and the Art of the Perfect Response
Let me tell you something about eleven years.
Eleven years is long enough to know which step on the third floor landing creaks in winter and which doesn’t. It’s long enough to know that the couple in 2A argues every Sunday morning and then laughs about it by afternoon, that the woman in 1C gets a grocery delivery every Thursday at half past ten, that the man in 5B practices what sounds like a recorder but might be a flute, badly, at intervals that suggest he has not improved in the time you’ve known him.
Continue on the next page:
