" I climbed the stairway (there was no elevator) and put the key in. The door swung open. Somebody had changed all the furniture around, put in a new rug. No, the furniture was new, too.
There was a woman on the couch. She looked all right. Young. Good legs. Blonde.
'Hello,' I said, 'care for a beer?'
'Hi!' she said. 'All right, I'll have one.'
'I like the way this place is fixed up,' I told her.
'I did it myself.'
'But why?'
'I just felt like it,' she said.
We each drank at the beer.
'You're all right,' I said. I put my beercan down and gave her a kiss. I put my hand on one of her knees. It was a nice knee.
Then I had another swallow of beer.
'Yes,' I said, 'I really like the way this place looks. It's really going to lift my spirits.'
'That's nice. My husband likes it too.'
'Now why would your husband...What? Your husband? Look, what's this apartment number?'
'309.'
'309? Great Christ! I'm on the wrong floor! I live in 409. "

― Charles Bukowski