Predictable.
And then a man upstairs decided to find out exactly how much “reasonable” I would tolerate.
His name was Daniel Hartley.
He moved into apartment 4B fourteen months earlier.
At first, he seemed perfectly pleasant.
About forty.
Friendly enough.
The kind of man who carried groceries in reusable bags and filled his apartment with houseplants before he had even finished unpacking.
When we first met, I gave him a card with the building manager’s number, emergency maintenance details, recycling schedule, and quiet-hour rules.
He thanked me sincerely.
I remember thinking:
Good.
This one will be easy.
The tea bags started during his second month.
The first one appeared on my balcony one wet November morning.
Used.
Still damp.
Breakfast tea.
I assumed it was an accident.
Wind.
Carelessness.
Something tossed without thinking.
I picked it up and threw it away.
Then another appeared.
And another.
By December, there had been several.
