I can't believe I spilled red wine all over his new sofa. It's peach, and it's four days old. And yes, I could tell he was livid inside. How could he show anger to a lady who has obviously reapplied lip gloss a dozen times and combed her hair so that the fringes rested excatly on her cheeks, giving him the opportunity to brush them with his fingers? He kept that Joker-like smile on his face, and I was still happy he had the decency not to throw me out of his place, even though I conveniently live next door.

Nevertheless, I think, his kind forgiveness was a complete act. Not a good one even. I spilled wine on myself first before I accidentally splashed it on the sofa. My cute top, my skirt. All over me. If I walked out in the hall way my other neighbors would think I was fermenting. And yet he never even bothered to ask if I was okay. He asked if I wanted to wash my skirt (which would mean I would have to step out of his bathroom skirtless), and I refused. He could have just shown some concern. The way he looked at his poor peach sofa, and the way he scrubbed it silly with a stain remover, you'd think I wasn't there. But I had to be there because I spilled the wine.

He's a furniture freak. But why would a man redecorate his house fifty seven times solely for his pleasure? I have not heard of furniture fetish, but I DO know that gay people are the best in furniture design. It's their passion.

Speaking of passion, I am not very passionate about this thing. He's my next door neighbor and if we got too involved, I would mess things up. Big time. And even in my building I wouldn't be able to move around with liberty. This morning I had to take the stairs because his friends crashed his place last night and we found ourselves heading for the lift at 8 AM. I didn't want to exchange awkward looks with them in the lift, so I ran down three floors (panting and all) just to catch my bus.

That was absolutely appalling. I hope I don't have too many cute neighbors. Ok one more wouldn't hurt.