From the Migraine Files

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?