That's Where We Meet
A cheerful redheaded woman was up a ladder and planting impatiens in our window-boxes when I came home on Thursday. At first I wondered whether she had the wrong building, since she was raking Stave's windowsill as if it were her own, but finally I went over and asked her what was going on. She said she just couldn't look at dead twigs anymore, so she had bought some flowers to plant. I still couldn't figure out who she was; she obviously wasn't related to the super (everyone else who works in the building is), but she looked too well-prepared, with her cart full of soil and gardening tools, to be an amateur or even a benign vandal.
I asked her warily whether she had asked the people who live in the apartment, and she said, "Why, do you live here?" I did, and I hastily pointed out that this wasn't my window; mine was that one with the dinky little potted rosemary and lavender plants. She said, "Oh, would you like me to plant those in the soil for you?" Sure; that would be nice. It turns out she lives in the building, and simply "couldn't stand it anymore."
It was a tad awkward to try to thank this stranger for beautifying our windows after we had neglected them for the last two years, but she seemed to be enjoying herself. She went on for awhile about how the building used to have a super who would do these things on his own, and how there used to be a tenants' association, but nowadays, no one in our building does much for anyone else. She had tried wiring plants to her own window on the sixth floor, but was threatened with eviction if she didn't take them down. This woman was enjoying her self-righteous activism, too, but not as much as she was enjoying gardening outside after a week of rain.
We have friendly neighbors. Who knew?