217 Babel Street | Apartment 15
Leaving the second glass of Julietta's Pinot untroubled, Tom picked up the curious box and stood. "I must go," he announced, keen to leave this oppressive flat, cluttered with driftwood and books. (Julietta appeared to work her way arduously through the literary shortlists.)
"But - " said Julietta. "It's still early. I thought we could - "
A prior appointment, he fibbed.
"But you haven't told me anything," Julietta snapped, suddenly angry. Fortunately this burst of assertiveness was brief; her temper dissolved into a blush.
He'd call, he promised. When she leaned forward at the apartment door to kiss, her breath stank of fags and alcohol. She'd chugged while he'd sipped.
"See you Monday."
Rather than wait for the lift, enduring her disappointed gaze, he plunged down the stairs, two at a time.
At the third floor, passing the lift, everything went unexpectedly black. Where his foot expected firm concrete, it found air. He fell forwards. Clutching his precious cargo in his right hand, he had only his left to grab awkwardly at where he imagined the handrail to be. Gravity took him headlong.
The clattering plunge was brief, ending with his head meeting wall.
The landing light buzzed, then flickered on again to reveal his legs rising above him on the stairs, bent at unlikely angles.
The door to Number 8 opened. A slim woman, dark hair tied up, peered out. "My god. Are you alright?"
"I fell," he said, hoping to sound casually manly.
"Is that blood?"