Looking deep into Penelope’s eyes, he says, loud enough for everyone in the room to hear him clearly: “Barb is a cold inhuman bitch, the most arrogant person I’ve ever met. The most convinced of her own superiority.”

“What makes you think that?”

“You’d never understand,” he says, losing interest and turning back to the cheese.

“Yes I would!”

He chuckles, seeming surprised and even charmed by her earnestness. “I insult her all the time. And she never gets offended. It’s rude and offensive.”

“Sounds like you get easily offended.”

He shakes his head. “Not especially. She’s just odious. She gets the medal for being least annoyable. And her medal is in this gun. And I can’t wait to give it to her.”

“But why do you insult her?”

The doorman sits on one of my counter stools. He looks tired. “Because she wasn’t offended by my subtle signs of disrespect.”

“Why did you give her signs of disrespect?”

“Because she wasn’t bothered when I was in a bad mood or slightly rude.”

“Wow. So it began small and really escalated.”

“Exactly,” he says, nodding. “Her ego was incapable of getting miffed by me because she considers people like me so unimportant. That’s why I pushed it. She infuriated me.”

Penelope is nodding.

Encouraged, he goes on: “Thinking about it makes me very angry. That’s why I’m here. To put an end to her. For me, it’s a win-win situation. If she’s miffed before dying, I’ll finally have gotten what I want. If she’s still not miffed, that will prove that she’s a psychopath and that I shouldn’t have taken her behavior personally, which will make me feel better about the whole thing. I’ll kill her either way, of course, but right before doing it, I will hold the barrel of my gun against her forehead and I will ask her one simple question: ‘Does this bum you out?’”

Penelope says, “I understand. You want to feel that you exist, that you matter, like we all do, but—”

“Exactly! I always have the courtesy of being offended when people are not nice to me. I mean, look at me now!” he roars, standing up.

Penelope nods. “Of course. But there’s something you should know. The reason Barb wasn’t miffed is not because she has a huge ego, but rather, no ego. It’s not you she considered unimportant but herself.”

“Oh, spare me the bullshit!”

“It’s true. You were right, you shouldn’t have taken it personally, not because she’s a psychopath, but because she was traumatized by a terrible event two and a half years ago that left her numb.”

The doorman looks like he’s about to explode with sarcastic comments, so without a pause, Penelope quickly explains. “Her best friend killed himself out of love for her, and since then she’s obliterated herself. Her main concern is to avoid hurting anyone ever again, even indirectly, even accidentally, which is why when you mistreated her, she was concerned about you, not about herself. Didn’t she express concern for you, for your well-being?”

“Yeah, it was so condescending.”

“She never complained to the management about you, did she?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, she didn’t, otherwise you’d be fired and you know it. Most people would have reported you. And do you know why she didn’t?”

“Because she knew I’d retaliate. That’s obvious.”

Penelope shakes her head. “No. It’s because she didn’t want you to lose your job. Understand that I’m not objecting to your desire to kill, per se. What troubles me is that your murderous impulse is based on a misinterpretation of everything she’s done. The person you’re hunting down doesn’t exist. She’s an illusion, your delusion. You took the few pieces of her that were visible to you and you put them together into this little grotesque being that you assume is Barb. But I’ve now handed you the missing pieces, so you can rebuild her into what she really is: a person who has been altered by grief. If you knew the real Barb, you would love her and want to protect her, not kill her.”

To my surprise, he looks momentarily moved. But, recovering quickly, he says, “Clever twist, and a very poetic story you’ve made up, but I know you’re lying because you’d be stupid not to, and you don’t look stupid.”

“I couldn’t have made that up to save my life. I’m not very creative. I just like to fix things. Like your misconception of Barb.”

“It doesn’t matter. I have my heart set on killing her, and plus I think you’re lying.”

“No, she’s telling the truth,” Georgia jumps in. “Ever since her best friend killed himself out of love for her, Barb has developed a shell. She’s still very caring about the welfare of others, such as yourself or her friends, but not her own. She no longer cares what people think of her. In fact, she now prefers being disliked to being loved too much. This can come off as cold indifference. And someone could, as you have, misinterpret her as being a hard bitch.”

I know Georgia means what she says because she’s actually said this to me before.

“I don’t care what lies you all make up. I’m not going to change my mind,” the doorman says.

My stress level is skyrocketing. By now, lots of cell phones are ringing, and so is my landline. No one is allowed to answer their phones, so the room is filled with clashing ring tones accompanied by a gentle tinkling sound as Lily starts unobtrusively playing the piano.

“What’s taking her so long?” The doorman turns to Peter. “And why is she getting apples in the first place?”

“They go well with cheese,” Peter says.

The doorman cuts himself another piece of goat cheese and says to Lily, “That’s very pretty, what you’re playing.”

“It’s called ‘Need,’” Lily answers.

“Of all the times I’ve seen you come in and out of the building, I never imagined you played the piano, and so well,” he says.

Penelope continues trying to reason with him. “We think we know people. We think that what we see is all there is. We rarely ask ourselves what goes on behind the curtain. We jump to conclusions. And we take everything very personally.”

The doorman suddenly cocks his ear, as though he hears a faint sound. “Do you hear that?” he asks Penelope. “That’s the sound of no one caring. You’re making me cringe now. If you keep this up, my finger might cringe on the trigger. And, plus, I just realized I have a real problem.”

“What problem?” Penelope asks, as Lily keeps playing.

“Well, I know I’m going to prison, I knew that from the start, so that’s not the problem. The problem is I forgot to arrange things for when I get out of prison. I mean, in case I ever get out, which of course will depend on whether or not I’ll be able to kill Barb.”

“What did you forget to arrange?”

“Mainly, I’m out of office supplies, and I forgot to buy more.” He now looks very distressed. “I wish I’d made sure my desk was always well-stocked, so then if I did go to prison, at least I’d have everything I needed when I got out. And knowing that would make being in prison so much more bearable.”

My bafflement at what he’s saying is short-lived because I quickly realize he’s being influenced by Lily’s music. She must be using that new musical skill she developed recently: the ability to beautify—and create a desire for—things even when they’re not there. Clearly, in this case, she chose office supplies.

“Staples is open till ten,” Penelope says to him.

“You’re kidding!” He looks at his watch. “I’ll go to prison even if I don’t kill Barb, and I’d love to kill her, but she’s taking so long, and I can’t face going to prison without a well-stocked desk; that’s my priority. Maybe I could get to Staples without getting arrested until after I’ve bought my stuff.”

“You are so wise,” one of the guests says. “You should go to Staples right away, before it closes. And if you don’t mind, I’ll go with you because I’m out of pencils and getting low on thumbtacks.”