In the backseat of a taxi. Riding the narrow passageways of your city. Lost where you would be at home. The driver, undaunted by buckled signs and hooting pedestrians.
Faces slide past the window. White lines flap under the tyres as we pull into a bus stop.
I pay the driver and step into maple leaves that scratch circles on the pavement. Ten pounds – I refuse the scraps of change. Briefcase in hand.
Your block is concrete and glass, gloating over barbed wire and car parks. A panel with push buttons and mess thrown across it. Sticky beneath my finger, button forty-seven.
The taxi is already gone.
A click. Hello? It’s Grey here, you… The lock buzzes.
The foyer is a carcass of something dead. A lift that was built not to work. Blank, battered and smelling of damp. I cross the carpet, stirring stale milk and washing powder up from the floor. A epileptic tube illuminates graffiti. I take the stairs, two at a time, trying to sponge up excitement with a release of energy. A pile of cotton buds at the corner of the stairwell, stuck to the concrete with earwax. On your floor the sign is gone. Four screw holes prolapse plastic plugs. The door has a smashed pane held in place by a weave of steel. I can see your door.
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