I live on the mezzanine level of Nordstrom

As of late, strange rhythmic piano music has been pulsating from my roommate's bedroom, usually in the hours after midnight. This whole musical pattern came on very suddenly, almost like a fever in the night, and its recurrance has plagued this Bateman Street household for no less than a fortnight.

It's almost like living at Cafe Nordstrom. You know, that distinct locus inside Nordstrom where the grand piano is being somberly played to induce shoppers into thinking, "What the hell, it's only $279, I make that in a day and a half playing an automaton at the office. I deserve this for all my hard work."

This whole scenario makes me half expect the guy to come out of his room in a smoking jacket holding a glass or port (well, it would probably be a plastic tumbler in this case). My only question is this: Where are the lattes, delicate Madeline cookies, blueberry encrusted scones, and richly drawn macchiatos? They are certainly not in that room (dare I say chamber of darkness?), that is for damn sure.

We were wondering why the music suddenly appeared. We are convinced it is due to the interest of some woman or girl. Most likely a girl. However, we are reticent to investigate this matter any further for fear of what might be found.

So, for now my dear readers, it's Cafe Nordstrom (sans edible baked treats and the luxurious smell of expensive fine-grained leather wafting from the handbag department nearby) on Bateman Street.