be worse.”
Then he closed the door.
I remained in the hallway for several seconds.
That conversation bothered me more than the tea bags themselves.
For eleven years, I had tried to be the kind of neighbor people could depend on.
I watered plants when people traveled.
Accepted deliveries.
Looked after pets.
Signed for packages.
I had even collected this man’s parcels throughout the previous winter whenever he wasn’t home.
Yet he couldn’t manage the basic courtesy of using his own trash can.
Standing outside his apartment, I realized something else.
Getting angry wouldn’t accomplish anything.
If I shouted or caused a scene, he could simply tell everyone that the woman downstairs had completely overreacted because of a few harmless tea bags.
I wasn’t going to give him that opportunity.
Instead, I decided to give him one final chance.
If nothing landed on my balcony the following morning, I would
