So I didn’t give it to him.
I walked back downstairs.
I made myself a cup of tea — I see the irony — and I sat at my kitchen table and I thought about what was actually available to me.
Ezoic
I decided I would give it one more morning.
One more morning, because I am not a person who acts in anger, and because the gap between my second knock and whatever came next needed to be clean and considered. I decided that if nothing came over the rail in the morning, I would let all of it go. I would accept that the second conversation had landed differently than the first and that sometimes people surprise you.
At 7:04 the next morning, the bag came over the rail and landed by my plant pots.
I stood in my robe and looked at it for a long time.
I finished my coffee.
By the time I had finished my coffee, I knew exactly what I was going to do.
Here is what I know about myself that is relevant.
I spent twenty-two years working as a records manager for a firm of solicitors before I took early retirement eighteen months ago. Records management sounds dry when you describe it at parties, and I have watched many pairs of eyes glaze politely at the words, but what it actually is is this: the precise, systematic organization of information into structures that can be reliably retrieved and used. It is about knowing where things are, knowing what they mean, knowing how the pieces connect, and knowing exactly what you need before you need it.
I am very good at this.
I am also good at research.
I spent one afternoon and most of an evening at my kitchen table, with my laptop and a cup of actual tea, and I mapped out a response.
Not a revenge. I want to be clear about that distinction, because revenge is emotional and disproportionate and ultimately about the feeling rather than the outcome. What I planned was a response. Proportionate. Documented. Using exactly the tools available to me in exactly the order that made them most effective.
I was going to teach D. Hartley a lesson about the building he lived in.
Specifically, about the building he lived in and what the lease said about it.
The lease.
I had a copy of my own, obviously, and I knew the building well enough to know that the standard tenancy agreement for all units in this block had not significantly changed in the eleven years I had been here, because I had been present for the management company changeover eight years ago and had read both agreements carefully. I knew the relevant clauses the way I know the maintenance request process and the recycling schedule — because I pay attention, and because information is the thing that is useful when you need it.
