Noel

The old parquet floor creaked welcomingly underfoot. Through the golden dust, I gazed at the "new" haven, where everything was held together by a thread. "The house's a bit depressing," the realtor paused awkwardly, holding a broken closet handle. "But what a neighbor! A real gem. For a duplex, that's more important than the foundation!" He was right. My neighbor Noel turned out to be perfect: he simply smiled knowingly when the workers accidentally knocked a hole into his living room, revealing the stark minimalism behind the wall of my chaos. Sunday morning promised peace, but it was interrupted by the groan of metal. The century-old boiler in the bathroom, unable to withstand the strain, had tilted and ripped out the pipes. The house was turning into a branch of Niagara Falls. Panicked, I pounded on the neighbor's door. "Noel! Open up, we're drowning!" I screamed. "Good morning?" Noel paused sleepily in the doorway. — The boiler blew! Help! The drowsiness evaporated. Grabbing his tools, he burst into my house. The old valves gave way under his hands, but the iron bulk of the boiler began to collapse right on top of him. "Hold on!" I screamed. Noel, like Hercules, picked up the hundred-liter colossus, straining his muscles so much that his T-shirt almost burst, and lowered the monster into the bathtub. "Don't just stand there," he breathed. "Bring some rags. We're building a dam." An hour later, the last puddle was conquered. Noel wrung out his towel and suddenly burst out laughing. “What’s wrong?” I asked, sitting down exhausted on the ottoman. "Decided to do a spring cleaning? A radical method," he wiped his forehead. "But the floors are sparkling. And we both showered fully dressed." I looked at myself: wet pajamas, a "nest" on my head. Noel looked no better: his wet clothes emphasized a sculpted body I'd never realized existed. “Consider this a baptism of fire at home,” I smiled. "Next time, choose something smaller," he chuckled, helping me to my feet. "Like a teapot. I'll get through it faster."