Nick: Apparently my cooking gas hasn’t been turned on yet. I’ll have to call the guardian.
Me: Huh? Now I dimly recall seeing an on-site “guardien” as a selling point in most of the apartment listings.
Me: Oh. Honey, you mean the super?
Nick: Guardian.
Me: But there’s no such thing, so there must be a different English word. Isn’t it like the super?
Nick: Guardian. That’s just what she’s called.
Me: Honey, I think this might be one of those “cave” things, because “guardian” isn’t an apartment thing.
An aside here: “cave,” with an “ah” sound, is French for cellar. “Hey, this apartment has a cave!” Nick exclaimed early on in the search. Because this is how we are, I gave him a hard time about it, and now he constantly talks about caves in French buildings. And all I can do is seethe, because I just know that he’s picturing something with bats.
Nick: Well, she’s not a super. More like a concierge.
Now, I saw the trap here, I did. But…
Me: Okay, so the concierge.
Nick: Well, except that would be a concierge. So she’s something else.
Damnit.
Nick: I see her outside sweeping leaves all the time, and she’s the one who delivers all our mail. She’s a lot like a doorman.
Me: Okay…so a doorman.
I am happy for about eight seconds, until I recall his building’s dark, empty entryway.
Me: Except for the part about being near the door and letting people in. Which…is kind of a big part.
Nick: We can call her a doorman anyway, if it’ll make you feel better.
Couldn’t you just kill him?