Someone mopped my stairwell today.
It’s been at least…let’s see…19 days since a mop has danced its way across the concrete. This I know for a fact, because the day Anne moved to Houston I took out the trash. A hefty bag it was, and I was lifting it He-Man tricep dip-style behind my shoulders when I felt something dripping down my leg.
Ack. It was red. Disgusting scarlet garbage juice. All over my jeans. All over the ground.
I deposited the giant black sack in the trash dumpster and retraced my steps like breadcrumbs all the way back to my apartment. Tiny smatterings of bright red dotted the sidewalks, and the phantom liquid had also dripped a nice trail all the way up the stairs, stopping at my apartment door.
It’s okay, I thought to myself, they’re sure to come by with their heavy-duty mops soon and clean the stairwell.
Wishful thinking. After a week had passed and I felt the need to explain to every single apartment-guest about the mess, it became a game: When Will They Mop? Two weeks passed. I almost chuckled every time I left or came home, except that it was really kind of gross.
Well. Today, they mopped. Perhaps we’re on a bi-monthly mopping schedule?
