Illustration by Bob AulYou don't want to talk to me ever again, and I don't blame you. But let me try to explain—once again—the incident that made you impose this lifetime vow of silence. See, I was accustomed to entering your house when the door was unlocked, and that's what I found when I visited you to return some books—for what turned out to be the last time. I heard music. I saw windows open. I felt a loose doorknob. I went in—and there you were, peaceful in your slumber. Really, what could I do? I knew I was fucked: If I woke you up, you'd probably think I was stalking you and call the cops. But I couldn't just leave and pretend nothing ever happened, because I didn't want your neighbors to tell you they saw me enter your house while you were asleep. So I did the honorable thing: I stood a good 15 feet away and quietly called your name. I held my hands up to show I didn't have a knife or ulterior motives. You awoke screaming in horror. I apologized immediately—explained about the books—but you wouldn't hear it and probably never will. I can live with that. Just do yourself a favor: next time you're tired and want to take a nap, lock your doors like the rest of humanity.
Send anonymous thanks, confessions or accusations—changing or deleting the names of the guilty and innocent—to "Hey, You!" c/o
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