The doorbell at my house doesn’t work. A couple of weeks ago, after living her for nearly a year, I finally wrote, “Doorbell broken, please knock,” on a slip of paper, and taped it to the glass of our front door.
Since doing that, we’ve had a bunch of people knock on our door—neighbors and things. I wonder how many people pushed the doorbell button, and then just stood there for a while, wondering why the people inside (who they no doubt could hear) didn’t answer.
Today, a young man knocked tentatively in a way that I like to believe meant he wasn’t sure whether to believe my sign or not. Then he had to wait while we herded the hysterically barking dog into the backyard, and while the boyfriend scooped up the less hysterical (and markedly shorter) dog so he could open the door.
He looked befuddled when he saw us, and he asked, haltingly, “Are your parents home…? Or… do you live here?”
I still find this hilarious, because the way he asked this made me feel as though he thought we were perhaps squatting in the home of someone else.
Given the state of our front-room-round-table, I can see how he might think that.
No comments:
Post a Comment