Midnight Room Service in Toronto and the Neighbor Who Knocked by Mistake

Toronto in the small hours is quiet in a way that feels almost courteous. I had landed after a long crossing, showered, wrapped myself in the hotel robe and ordered room service with the weary confidence of a woman who knows exactly what she wants and no longer apologizes for it. Fries. A salad I would ignore. Something chocolate for emotional support.

The knock came a few minutes early, or so I assumed. I opened the door in the robe, hair damp, ready to be gracious to a cart. Instead there was a tall man in a rumpled shirt holding a room key and the expression of someone who has just discovered his own life is a bit more complicated than he thought.

The knock came a few minutes early, or so I assumed.

He had the wrong floor, he explained, and possibly the wrong century. He had been at a conference dinner that ran long, he was staying in the room directly above mine, and the elevator had apparently taken his sense of direction as a tip. He apologized three times and looked at the carpet for most of the fourth. I found it charming, which is a dangerous thing to find at midnight.

When the actual cart arrived, I did the sensible thing and the unsensible thing at once. I told him he was welcome to the extra fries, since I had clearly ordered for two without noticing. He hesitated, and then he asked whether the hallway counted as a polite location. I said I would allow it, provided he stayed on his side of the threshold.

We sat on the carpet with the door propped open, passing a plate back and forth like contraband, while the city hummed twenty floors below. Somewhere in the second hour the threshold became a suggestion. How that suggestion ended is on TheFriend, where I will tell it with the door closed.

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