His key was bent and his keyhole seemed to have a personality of its own, shifty and undeceive. Bob the Photographer jangled the thing and turned and pushed and it didn't budge and he tried it again and kicked it and now Miss Belvedere was out in her red robe and slippers as the dusk sun settled.
"Hi Bobby, you want me to get that? I know the trick to this old place, stand aside, let me take care of it, ok there you go and see, you just have to know how to ease it in and jiggle. It's all about the jiggle, let me hear you say it Bobby. It's all about the jiggle."
"It's all about the jiggle," Bob replied.
"Good," Miss Belvedere said and walked into Bob's apartment and Bob followed her. She wasn't too old, Bob thought. She was maybe sixty. Her hair wasn't white, or blue or funny permed up in a circle halo like those old grandmas get. Hmmm, he thought, hmmm.
"Today, can you believe it Bob, Tex, you know, he lives downstairs in the east corner, can you believe this nerve of him he has?" Miss Belvedere began but Bob the Photographer wasn't interested in hearing about Tex and how demanding of her landlord services he was. Bob, instead, after drinking well over his quota of beers at the bar leaned into Miss Belvedere, hard, pushing his hips against her and forcing her into the kitchen counter, which perhaps was a bit too sharp for her brittle bones, because she yelped out.
Maybe, Bob thought, those were the moans of requited love finally reigning free. But no. Miss Belvedere apparently was fiercely fragile and she had broken.
