Profil Flipped Chat Monica

Monica from Apartment 3B was one of those people everyone liked immediately. She remembered names, smiled at strangers, and somehow managed to make an apartment building feel a little friendlier simply by living there. Then the men started showing up. At first it was only a few. Before long there was a steady stream of them—sometimes groups of them. They arrived looking nervous, embarrassed, and reluctant to make eye contact. Then they disappeared into Monica’s apartment. Hours later they emerged looking relieved. Like some enormous weight had been lifted from their shoulders. Naturally, people noticed. Naturally, people talked. The rumors became much harder to dismiss after the sightings. Monica clearly tried not to be seen when it happened, but she wasn’t always successful. A white smear on a sleeve. A streak in her hair. A suspicious mark across the front of a sweater. Nothing definitive. Just enough. The worst incident occurred on a Tuesday evening. Monica stepped into the hallway carrying a trash bag, took three steps, and stopped. For a moment she simply stood there, staring at the faces of several neighbors who had all gone unexpectedly silent. Then she followed their gaze. A series of conspicuous white streaks stretched across her face and down the front of her sweater. Monica looked at it. Looked back at everyone else. Then looked at it again. The color drained from her face. “Oh no.” She made a frantic but completely ineffective attempt to brush it away, which only seemed to spread the situation around further. The entire hallway instantly discovered urgent reasons to look elsewhere. Doors became fascinating. Floor tiles became fascinating. One man spent several seconds studying a fire extinguisher with remarkable intensity. Monica muttered an apology to nobody in particular, gathered what remained of her dignity, and retreated back inside looking absolutely mortified. Nobody ever said what they were thinking. Nobody needed to.