The trees dance wildly, thrashing green against a charcoal sky and even the dash from the bus to the apartment block is enough to drench me through. My soaked clothes drip on the tiles leaving a trail in to the elevator. I come face to face with myself in the mirror, this is habit. I work in an office, in the basement of the building, actually I prefer to refer to it as a cave, and therefore my colleagues, the other cave-dwellers, are troglodytes. I cannot help but see my place of work and its inhabitants in this way, the association is fixed in my mind. Don't ask about how this affects my sense of self-worth.
In the mirror a partially drowned creature looks back at me through bedraggled hair, black shirt plastered to his chest and jeans clinging to thighs. Still, I am home, a long hot shower, warm towels and then food while I read. Quiet, warm and contented.
I can hear the hen-cluck and chatter of neighbours as the elevator ascends, the peck for gossip. I offer muttered prayers that the voices drifting down the shaft do not originate on my floor. However, as the elevator's rise comes to a halt the voices are clear as day. I exit, ready to nod politely, replying to greetings with my own, only slightly more developed than that offered to the strangers on the bus, and keep moving, that is essential, always keep moving.
It's the octogenarian I could hear, she squawks nineteen to the dozen, she knows everyone and everything. But who is she talking to, who got stuck? I risk raising my head, that's the other rule: avoid eye-contact. It's one half of the couple next-door: Lana, for whom I'll admit I carry a torch, a discrete torch. I can't help but notice the way the wet black blouse clings tight to the high round curve of her breasts. I have heard the octogenarian refer to Lana as a whore, I swear, in hushed tones and in discussion with one of the other fossils that inhabit this building, sharing a thin-lipped frown. God knows why such accusations were being made, I guess accusations ferment where jealousy takes root.
Of course, such animosity is never direct, she's all pleasant hellos, that's how it goes. Lana is holding a heavy grocery bag, her key is in the lock, her hair wet like mine. She's been caught, she didn't keep moving, to be fair it's damned hard to get the key in the door and get the door open in one fluid action, especially if you're weighed down with groceries.
I pass the pair with no more than a flashed, empty smile, hiding first contempt and then desire for each respective face, hoping their conversation won't suddenly swell to include me, unsure if both sentiments can be concealed simultaneously.
Key out already, my hand is going to reach the door a pace before my feet do, that's the trick: key, step, shoulder, push, and door closed behind you with your foot. My door is open, I can see at least three inches of wall inside my apartment, it's not fair, that should count, but a word snatches it away, my name is said. I could ignore it, I could pretend I didn't hear, but I paused, I know I did. Fucking amateur.
I allow myself a small, defeated sigh, back-up half a step and turn my head to look at Lana, dimly aware of the frail figure further along the hall.
Lana smiles and realisation dawns on me: it was her that said my name. She's speaking, actually asking me something, making me be involved in their conversation. Does she hate me or something? She's stopped now, her forehead is furrowed like she's awaiting an answer, but the corners of her mouth have turned up and her eyes are creeping to the side as she turns her head a fraction, she's looking back at her other neighbour, gauging her reaction. Mischief, that's what this is.
"The thing, you wanted," she says, I guess she's repeating herself, "you want to come in and get it?"
Mischief and deliverance, brains and beauty.
The door on the opposite wall opens and another fossil appears. Lana turns her head back to look at me, haste and pleading in her eyes. I nod, muttering a brief greeting to the new appearance and pull my door closed, allowing Lana to lead me in to her apartment. She closes the door and leans heavily against it, the exaggerated rise and fall of her chest as she feigns immense relief at the horror she has escaped.
"I owe you," she smirks.
She leads me through. Now, I said that Lana is half of the couple next-door, the other half is frequently away, I assume, I have met him once or twice, and that was enough. In my musings on the subject I've always assume his prolonged absences are the result of some employment that requires him to reside elsewhere, having said that there's no reason why he couldn't be in prison, or the military.
I can hear them talking outside the door, between the faltering memories, their failing hearing and the insatiable desire to share every piece of gossip, they could be there for hours. Lana has shed her shirt, bare arms and bra disappearing around the corner as I turn to look.
I've not spoken to Lana a great deal in our time as neighbours, but she's obviously very good at putting people at ease, she has a habit of making you feel like you're old friends. She's warm and welcoming, open and witty. I'm not great at personal interaction, I work in a cave remember, but for all the times I've failed in the most basic codes of sociability she has remained relentlessly happy to see me and willing to accept my faltering attempts to be normal.
"I'm trapped," I hiss at her as she reappears drying her hair, black shirt swapped for white tanktop and jeans replaced with a skirt.
"Coffee?" she asks.
"They'll be out there talking for hours,"I reply, pointing my thumb back towards her front door.
"You'll have to hide out in here then," she shrugs, "imagine the scandal," she adds, mocking with eyes wide.
Barefoot she wanders, through to the kitchen, clicking the coffee pot on. I've got my hands in my pockets, facing her as she leans against the counter and folds her arms.
"You look cold," she observes.
"Soaked, and freezing," I reply.
With a sigh and a hastily suppressed smile she marches out and along the hall towards the bedroom.
"Take your things off," she calls back over her shoulder as I watch her go, "I'll chuck them in the dryer for you, ten minutes and they'll be dry and warm."
I hesitate, it'd be easier to just leave, get out the door and in to my apartment before the women have a chance to speak to me. I really don't want to get caught in here by Lana's other half, Brad I think his name is.
"Put this on," she offers, a silk robe that'll be ridiculously small on me, hanging from her outstretched finger.
Reluctantly I take the robe.
"Are you sure it's OK me being here?" I ask.
"Why wouldn't it be?" she answers, straight-faced.
"I mean-" what do I mean? I'm intent on not insulting her by implying that any male in her apartment would only be there for sex, but refusing to acknowledge that possibility would insult her too, wouldn't it? I think the problem is that I don't know where I stand, I have a feeling that she's been flirting with me, but maybe that's just wishful thinking. "Wouldn't Brad object to me being-" I begin, knowing it sounds condescending as the words leave my mouth, like she doesn't get a say in the matter of who enters.
"That, won't be a problem," she says, silencing me with the first syllable and throwing a cool glare at me. "Not a problem," she repeats, her eyes now positively frosty.
I've clearly touched a nerve and I'd love to know which one in order to avoid further faux pas, but I'm pretty sure asking would be as bad as the original crime. This is probably why I'm single.
Relieved, at least for the time being, that my presence here is sanctioned and rubber-stamped, and eager not to irritate my neighbour, I look about for direction as to where to get changed. Risking another glance towards Lana I see her impatient expression and immediately begin to undress.
She doesn't watch me, she turns away, gazing at a print she has hanging on the wall. I watch her though, as she absently chews her bottom lip and folds her arms, drumming fingers on her elbows.
By the time I've got the robe on, bare thighs barely covered, and the heavy rumble of the dryer has begun, we're both back in the kitchen and she's chuckling to herself over how I look as she pours the coffee. I've kept my shorts on under the robe, they weren't wet and I'm not enough of an exhibitionist to walk around without them. She directs me through to the living room which, just like mine, looks out towards the opposite building, another apartment block just like ours.
It's all new-builds around here, lots of concrete and glass, floor to ceiling windows and open-plans. The opposite building appears as randomly placed rectangles of orange and yellow light where inhabitants are home. The overcast sky has darkened as the sun set behind the thick layers of cloud and the narrow balcony is awash with a sheet of rain blown by the gale-force wind.
