escape to the land of sweets

We hadn't heard from our tap-hearing, note-leaving, cop-calling neighbor since the late night police incident weeks ago, until yesterday. I came hobbling up the stairs while carrying three Target bags and trying to wrangle Ollie (I realize in hindsight that I'm a sacred vessel and that it was very likely that I could have tripped and that for Ivy's safety I really should have made two trips. Oops) and was greeted outside my door by our tap-hearing, note-leaving-cop-calling and now nightgown-wearing neighbor who said "Excuse me, I just had back surgery. Could you please get my mail?" I had hoped to never have another encounter with this woman, but since our apartments are adjacent I knew that probably wasn't possible. I will admit that I hoped our next run-in would include some sort of apology, like "Hey sorry that I let my delusions run wild and accused you of malicious wrong doing and then turned you into the law for a crime you didn't commit." Nope. Instead she acted like we had never met. That I hadn't knocked on her door and pled innocence just weeks ago. That she hadn't previously considered me Longmont's most wanted. Maybe she doesn't remember. Maybe the surgeon operated not only on her back, but her frontal lobe as well. I pondered this possibility as I retrieved her mail, then dropped it off at her apartment lit only by the lights on her flocked Christmas tree. She sat upright in her chair, examined the single letter that I handed her, and said "Is this it?". Hard to please, that one.