The Game

"Dear Irish 3d..."

Anne recited her clandestine, romantical missive (on the trials and tribulations of Manhattan bathrooms when in the skilled hands of Jim the Super) to a skeptical Amber.

"You're really going to put that under his door?"

"Pourquoi pas? If he doesn't understand it then he isn't funny and I want nothing to do with him!"

Anne's brazen Frenchness began to quiver and fade as she flitted down to the third floor and heard multiple Irish voices roaring from the environs of apartment 3d. Gulping, she patted down her hair and applied her lipstick, lest anyone should happen to peer out of the peephole. Assuming a ridiculous yet clearly necessary posture, Anne crawled along the hallway towards Irish 3d's door with her clever note in her clever mouth. At last her destination was reached, and Anne thrust her vessel beneath his door with particular gusto and abandon. The voices inside the infiltrated apartment came to an abrupt halt. They were undoubtedly silenced by the sudden Trojan Horse in their living room.

Clamoring to her feet, Anne guffawed back up the stairs and into the open arms of 4c. Seeking prostration on the futon, she told Amber of her near scrape with detection.

And they watched the space between the door and floor with anticipation.