So there’s a nun on the balcony.

I don’t know how she got there. We’re three stories up, and the brickwork doesn’t present many opportunities for a sister to scale.

But there she is, an unmistakably nun-shaped silhouette through the translucent curtain. She is standing gravely among our potted orchids, her face pressed against the screen. A gentle wind tousles her headdress, sweeps her habit, but she is unperturbed.

I can’t tell if she knows that I know she’s there. If she does, her face betrays no hint of it. This is awkward.

I can’t tell how long she’s been there. I’ve been at my desk poring over the California ballot propositions for the last hour at least, and for all I know she could have been there the whole time.

My boyfriend’s out getting groceries, so it’s just me here. Well, me and the nun.

We have garlic on the countertop, but I’m not sure if that works on nuns. I also have a small hand-held mirror, and I don’t know if that will help either. If only I had paid more attention in Catholic school!

What should I do?