“It stains. I already lost a towel. Now a cushion.”
He looked at me with complete indifference.
“You live below me.”
I stared at him.
“That’s how apartment buildings work,” he added.
Then he smiled.
Not kindly.
“You should be glad it’s only tea.”
“What?”
“I’m just saying. Could be worse.”
And then he closed the door.
I stood in the hallway for almost a minute.
That was the moment I finally understood him.
He had decided I was harmless.
The polite older woman downstairs.
The neighbor who never caused trouble.
The one who would keep asking nicely until she finally gave up.
And, more importantly, I realized he wanted me angry.
He wanted me pounding on his door.
Raising my voice.
Giving him a story he could later tell about the unstable woman downstairs who lost her mind over tea bags.
So I didn’t.
I returned to my apartment.
Made myself tea—which felt appropriate—and sat at my kitchen table.
I decided to give him one final morning.
If nothing came over the balcony, I would let it go.
At 7:04 the next day, another tea bag landed beside my plants.
I finished my coffee.
Then I knew exactly what I was going to do.
Before retirement, I had spent twenty-two years as a records manager for a law firm.
People often assume records management means filing.
It does not.
It means knowing exactly what information exists, where it is stored, how pieces connect, and how to retrieve evidence when it matters.
I was very good at my job.
And I had time.
I spent the afternoon researching.
Not revenge.
A response.
There is a difference.
I pulled out my lease.
Our building used a standard agreement, and because I had lived there so long, I already knew many of its clauses.
