Waiting for the knock

All weekend, I've been half-waiting for a knock on the door.

On Friday, Barbara was doing her thing to hang my the antique windows I bought to create a sort of free-floating "wall" between the entrance door and my bedroom. (I had this sort of vague bricolage/pomo idea of using the windows; Barbara's amazing skill with display and types of hardware I didn't even know existed brought it to life). I'm working away, she's drilling into the ceiling, BRGRRRRRRRR, BRGRRRR, and then... FUCK! At the top of the ladder, she's simultaneously laughing and cursing, an "I can't believe this happened" expression on her face. "Um, I just hit air through the concrete. I think I might have drilled through your neighbour's floor." "Um, do you want to go up and see what happened?"

Both giggling -- how freaking absurd is this, imagining a little gopher-bump in the cork floor of whoever-it-is-who-lives-up-there that I know only by the occasional sounds of what is probably a treadmill and the odd billiard-ball-dropped-on-the-floor in the middle of the night noise. We strategize, every cell in my body resisting actually going up there to introduce myself with the declaration that I may have created a peephole between our already illusory personal space. We decide that surely -- surely! -- the floor is thicker than the (considerable and aggressive) length of B's concrete drill. We plot how to hang the windows with not-as-deep anchor thingies. I chicken out of the at best, embarrassing, confrontation, at worst, expensive and filled with understandable rage.

B continues the project, I continue to hang back from the teeth-clenching drama. And all weekend... so far... no word. And I hear them at home last night, so whatever it was, at least it's not -- apparently -- stunningly visible.

The windows need a bit more propping up -- they're bowing a bit in the middle -- but they look great.