THE CONCIERGE HATES ME

FB: "The concierge hates me."
ME: "What? No way."
FB: "Seriously. She hates my guts."
ME: "You're paranoid, I'm sure she doesn't HATE you. Why would she HATE you?"
FB: "I don't know, but she does."
ME: "Are you kidding me? I just saw her today and she was nothing but nice to me as always! Asked how my trip was, said you must have missed me, we talked about her dog and Christmas....."
FB: "Of course she likes you, you're foreign and you brought her cookies. She tells me what she REALLY thinks though."

Evidently, while I was away the concierge told him to get the shoes and all the other crap we keep in the hallway out and please make it look prettier. Evidently, while I was away there was a certain incident involving a certain armoire that we failed to measure before purchasing that resulted in some heated words with the aforementioned concierge. The armoire ended up denting several walls, sitting downstairs for three days before being loudly sawed apart in the courtyard, hauled back up the six flights and put back together again (I have new-found respect for FB's woodworking skills fyi).

But still, I had trouble actually believing that the very sweet, always smiling and asking how I am concierge was truly capable of HATING anyone.

That is, until yesterday morning when we walked out of the building together. She tried to avoid our eyes but I was persistent and walked past her with a cheery "Bonjour!" She turned, gave me a quick a smile before shooting dagger eyes into FB's skull.

ME: "Oh my god. You're right. Dude. She hates your frickin' GUTS!"
FB: "Told you so."
ME: "Wow. So uh, what are we supposed to get her for Christmas?"
FB: "I don't know, what do usually get someone who wishes you would drop dead?"

Hmmmm.....