“Right, right.” I’m shuffling to the side and waving her inside. Of course, because she has never in her life missed an opportunity to snoop, Frida ducks into my apartment as well, the top of her head bobbing past at my shoulder level. As soon as she gets inside she’s immediately twisting one of my plants ninety degrees and straightening the mail on my countertop.

“I’m sure it won’t take long,” Frida assures me. “Do you have anything for us to drink?”

I glance over at the super who’s looking pretty amused at Frida. I immediately take notes on how to smile and look like a complete badass at the same time.

“Sure, sure. Orange juice okay for everybody?”

The super nods and crouches down in front of my sink, getting to work. I spend the next twenty minutes gently herding Frida back toward the kitchen. If left to her own devices, I have zero doubts she would have already pawed through my underwear drawer.

Apparently the work is done because the super stands up, washes her hands, and then polishes off the full glass of orange juice I left for her in three gigantic swallows. I bet she’s one of those people who can parallel park in one swoop.

“Oh!” I remember at the last minute. “Actually, the light in my hallway has been flickering in and out. Do you have a second to check it out?”

“Really?” Frida asks at my elbow and I jump. The woman is sneaky like a cat. “Do you think it’s the wiring? Maybe that security system you had installed is screwing with the electric.”

I try very hard not to frown at Frida, but I don’t like the reminder that the installation of my high-tech security system has definitely been quite the meal for the building gossips. I already feel silly enough every time I get home and come eye-to-eye with the red blinking light that tells me the system is activated. Knowing my neighbors are talking about it makes me feel even more sheepish.

“I’m pretty sure the two systems don’t have anything to do with each other.” By the time I’m done saying this to Frida, the super’s already pulled one of my kitchen stools into the hallway and is unscrewing the light fixture. She eyes the flickering bulb for a second and then reaches up and screws it all the way in. The light immediately beams out, steady and strong.

Oh, my God. I don’t resist the urge to cover my face with one hand. That . . . is . . . embarrassing.

I’ve lived with a flickering hall light for a month and a half now and it didn’t even occur to me that maybe I hadn’t screwed the bulb in far enough.

“I . . . right. Sorry. I’ll . . . um, check that next time. Thanks.”