I know it's you. Don't even try. Every single day for the past two weeks I come out of the Pinnock Street branch at 5:30 and my car is in a different spot. Not a different lot. The SAME lot. Just a different spot. Always a BETTER spot. Closer to the exit. Shaded. Once you even backed it in, which I never do, but I'll admit it was easier to leave.
I don't know how you're getting in. I don't know how you know which car is mine. I don't know how you're doing this without tripping the lot's motion alerts.
But here's the thing, last Tuesday you left a note on the dash that said "your tire pressure was low, I filled it." WHO DOES THAT. You broke into my car to check my tire pressure. And you were RIGHT. I went to Grommick's and they confirmed all four tires were at exactly optimal PSI. EXACTLY optimal.
I should be calling the Civic Order Bureau. I should be filing a report. I should be furious.
I'm not furious.
I'm confused. And my car has never been in better shape. And last Thursday you left a piece of peppermint on the seat and I ate it, which in retrospect was a terrible safety decision, but it was really good peppermint.
If you're reading this: stop breaking into my car. Or don't. I don't know anymore. Just tell me who you are so I can stop thinking about you every time I walk to the parking lot.
I'm the one with the green Tolvick sedan, third floor. But you obviously already know that.