"What the hell?" I said, knowing full well what the hell. I headed to the laundry room to greet the wall assailant. I knew who it was. I knew what was happening. I opened the door.
"WOULD YOU TURN DOWN YOUR FUCKING MUSIC," Ophelia, though she stands 4 foot 11, managed to get in my face.
I envisioned ripping off my shoes and latching onto her hair as we roll about the laundry room, crashing through the backdoor and onto the lawn in an indistinguishable ball of cheetah print and press-on nails like an episode of Mob Wives. Instead, I stood calmly and said yes, I would turn down my (fucking) music. "I thought you went to bed early and go to work at -"
"I'M RETIRED NOW."
Oh great, fabulous. You're retired now. All Ophelia, all the time. 24/7 Ophelia. Ophelia, no vacancy. Ophelia. Ophelia. Ophelia.
She eventually mumbled that she was sorry, so I mumbled that I was sorry, although I still don't quite grasp what I'm sorry for. I don't understand who doesn't want to hear residual Avril Lavigne at 7:30 in the morning.
