Around 9 p.m., I heard a loud crash outside and ran to the window just in time to see a wooden dining chair lying in pieces across my hood, my windshield spiderwebbed with cracks radiating out from the point of impact.
I looked up and saw my upstairs neighbor, Trevor, leaning over his balcony railing, looking down at the damage with an expression that somehow managed to be more annoyed than apologetic.
« Sorry, man, » he called down, not sounding sorry at all. « It just slipped. »
« Yeah, right, » I thought to myself.
A dining chair doesn’t « slip » off a fourth-floor balcony on its own, but I didn’t have the energy to argue that point standing outside in the cold.
I asked him directly if he’d cover the repair.
He said he’d « think about it, » which I already understood meant no.
I called my insurance, filed a claim, and figured I’d deal with the rest through proper channels the next morning.
