217 Babel Street | Lobby
“For pity’s sake,” the woman said, “You’re holding everyone else up.”
Damien’s first day, key shiny new, he’d wedged the lift doors with 15kg dumbells and was piling the rest of his belongings inside when, from behind him, had come the meaningful coughing.
Damien turned, smiled eagerly. “Hi. I’m Damien. Apartment 14.”
She just said, “I’m in a hurry. I’m expecting a guest.” She held two Waitrose bags; from one a bottle of white wine poked out of a tear.
Damien hurried to move the weights aside. Together he, his boxes and his new neighbour rose in silence to the fifth floor. On the landing, she bent to untangle something dark from her heel. How well, he wondered, would he have to know a woman to recommend a regime of squats and leg curls?
Doors closed, but instead of descending, the lift rose again towards a floor marked “P". Parking? Not on the roof, surely?
When the doors reopened an elderly woman entered, all powder and cheekbones, hair a lank grey bob, red lipstick splodging beyond the borders of her lips, a dog at her side. She wore a thick scent that failed to mask the stink of cigarettes and decomposition.
“Hi,” he said brightly. “I’m Damien. Apartment 14. Just moving in.”
The woman glanced away at the metal wall, ignoring him completely, not deigning to respond. She only travelled a single floor downwards but as she and the dog exited, Damien gasped for air.
Bloody hell. Bitch city.