Bins Are Tuesday
(Thursday morning, the third floor of a block on Kastanienallee. Nnamdi is carrying a box.)
Hedwig: You’re the new people in 3B. I’m Hedwig, your neighbor. Fourth floor, thirty years.
Nnamdi: Nnamdi. We moved in yesterday.
Hedwig: Bins are Tuesday. Put the yellow one out on Monday night, not Tuesday morning. The truck comes at six.
Nnamdi: Monday night. Okay.
Hedwig: The local shop on the corner shuts at eight. The one by the tram stop is open until ten. Don’t buy bread there on Sunday.
Nnamdi: Why not?
Hedwig: It’s Saturday’s bread.
Nnamdi: Ah.
Hedwig: The tap in the courtyard. Use the left one. The right one only makes noise.
Nnamdi: Left one.
Hedwig: And the washing machine in the cellar is free on Wednesdays. Everybody thinks it’s busy. It isn’t.
(Nnamdi puts the box down and writes on his hand.)
Nnamdi: Is that everything?
Hedwig: No. The woman in 2A. Say good morning to her. Every time, even if she doesn’t answer.
Nnamdi: Is she difficult?
Hedwig: Her husband died in March. She’s on her own now, and she doesn’t come down much.
Nnamdi: Okay. Every time.
Hedwig: Good. Welcome to the block.
Nnamdi: Thanks. What about the bins again?
Hedwig: Tuesday. Yellow one Monday night.