The radio wakes you up at seven, the tail end of a computer ad, just before the flash news broadcast. You start your morning with murder, politics and the first traffic report of the day, stretching slowly while your self-starting coffeemaker kicks on. By the time you climb out of the shower and drip across the floor to the sink to shave, the smell of coffee has taken over the condo. You dress carefully, button-down, pressed suit and your Monday tie. Wandering to the kitchen, you notice the houseplants are a little dry. You fill the blue mug and your watering can, move clockwise from one plant to the next, sipping slowly. Grill some toast, read the headlines, another cup of coffee and you’re out the door.

Twenty minutes, three lefts and a right later, you pull into your parking spot, next to Tom’s blue Chevy and Kathy’s silver Honda. Dan the security guard checks your ID with a nod and buzzes you in. Seven floors up, a quick right and a left, and you’re there. You have four new messages, one a confused and apologetic wrong number, one from your boss, one about the office potluck, one from your sister, none worth keeping. You answer e-mails and sort new claims ‘til eleven. You’re in a floor meeting from eleven to noon, then head down to the cafeteria. Monday is cheese ravioli or tuna casserole, and you pick the ravioli, with a diet Coke and two pieces of garlic bread.

Back in your cubicle, you type and send refusal letters to clients, taking a bathroom break at two-thirty, and shutting your computer down at five-thirty. A right and a quick left, and you’re at the elevator. You hit Down, wait just over a minute, the doors open and you step inside. There’s a man standing by the bank of buttons, tall and broad with dark eyes and a clever mouth, and you’ve never seen him before. The elevator doors swish shut, and you turn, startled. Give your head a firm shake and reach out with your left hand to hit the ground floor button, but the man is still there, in the way, and you draw a quick breath.

“I- I’m sorry,” you say, “I forgot you were there.”

“You always do,” he says. His smiles softly, sadly, to himself it seems. He takes a step closer, then another, and you hold your breath as he slowly raises his hand. The elevator pings. The doors slide open, and you blink, step outside, walk past Dan who nods at you.

“Evenin’, sir,” he says.

“See you tomorrow, Dan,” you say.

The parking lot is half empty, Tom and Kathy are already gone. Twenty minutes later you’re home, you’ve punched in the code to your alarm system, you’ve cracked open a beer, and you’re settling down to watch the six o’clock news. You wind down with murder, politics, and tomorrow’s weather report. Dinner’s ready at seven, frozen lasagna fresh from the oven, and another beer. You channel-surf for a few hours, catch a bit of the game and a couple crime shows, call it a day at eleven. You set your coffeemaker for the next day. You strip down, switch the light off, and slide under the covers with a sigh.

--

The radio wakes you up at seven, the tail end of a car dealership ad, just before the flash news broadcast. You start your morning with murder, politics and the first traffic report of the day. You shower, shave and dress carefully, button-down, pressed suit and your Tuesday tie. Wandering to the kitchen, you knock over the ficus in the hall and have to spend a few minutes sweeping up the dirt. You fill the white mug with coffee, remember you’re out of cream, and drink it black. Grill some toast, read the headlines, another cup of coffee and you’re out the door.

Twenty minutes, three lefts and a right later, you pull into your parking spot, next to Tom’s blue Chevy and Kathy’s silver Honda. Dan checks your ID and buzzes you in. Seven floors up, a quick right and a left, and you’re there. You have one new message, a confused and apologetic wrong number, nothing worth keeping. You answer e-mails until ten-thirty, have a conference call until eleven, then sort new claims until noon. Then you head down to the cafeteria. Tuesday is spaghetti with tomato sauce or hamburgers, and you pick a burger, with a diet Coke and fries.

Back in your cubicle, you type and send refusal letters to clients, taking a bathroom break at two-thirty and shutting your computer down at five-thirty. A right and a quick left, and you’re at the elevator. You hit Down, and wait. The doors don’t open. The lit-up numbers show the elevator is stuck on the eighth floor. You wait just over five minutes, the doors finally open, and you step inside. There’s a man standing by the bank of buttons, tall and broad with dark eyes and a clever mouth, and you’ve never seen him before. He drops a heavy hand on your shoulder, and you draw a quick breath, startled.

“I- I’m sorry,” you say.

“Don’t,” he says. “Please don’t forget.” He smiles at you softly, sadly. He takes a step closer, then another, and you hold your breath as he lowers his head toward you. The elevator doors slide open with a ping. You blink, step outside, and walk past Dan who nods at you.

“Evenin’ sir,” he says.

“See you tomorrow, Dan,” you say.

The parking lot is mostly empty, Tom and Kathy are already gone. Twenty minutes later you’re home, you’ve punched in the code to your alarm system, you’ve cracked open a beer, and you’re settling down to watch the six o’clock news. You wind down with murder, politics and tomorrow’s weather report. Dinner is last night’s leftover lasagna fresh from the microwave, and a few more beers. You channel-surf for a few hours, catch a made-for-TV movie about frontier life in the 1800s, and fall asleep on the couch at eleven.

--

The phone wakes you up at eight, a confused and apologetic wrong number. You start your morning late with a sore back and a crick in your neck from sleeping in the living room, stretching painfully as it dawns on you that you didn’t set your coffeemaker last night. You shower, shave and dress quickly, button-down, pressed suit, and the first tie you see. You hurry to the kitchen, grill some toast, and eat it on your way out the door.

Twenty minutes, three lefts and a right later, you pull into your parking spot, next to Tom’s blue Chevy and Kathy’s silver Honda. Dan checks your ID carefully and buzzes you in with a nod. Seven floors up, a quick right and a left, and you’re there. You have no new messages. You answer e-mails and sort new claims until eleven-thirty. Your boss calls you in for a performance evaluation that goes until noon, then you head down to the cafeteria. Wednesday is cheese pizza or clam chowder, and you pick the pizza, with a diet Coke and a salad.

Back in your cubicle, you type and send refusal letters to clients for hours, shutting your computer down at five-thirty. A right and a quick left, and you’re at the elevator. You hit Down, but the button isn’t working. You hit it again, and it still won’t light up, so you take the stairs. There’s a man standing at the bottom, tall and broad with dark eyes and a clever mouth, and you think you’ve seen him before. He drops a heavy hand on your shoulder, and you draw a quick breath, startled.

“I- I know you,” you say.

“You do,” he says. He smiles at you softly, gladly. He takes a step closer, then another, and you hold your breath as he lowers his lips to yours. Your mouth opens on a moan, and he draws away. You blink, he pushes you out of the stairwell and past Dan who nods at you.

“Evenin’ gentlemen,” he says.

The parking lot is empty, everyone is already gone. Twenty minutes later you’re home, you’ve punched in the code to your alarm system, you’ve shed your tie and jacket, and you’re lying back on the couch watching him tower over you. He winds you up with quick hands and a hot mouth, pushes you open and takes you apart from the inside. Dinner is whatever he slides between your lips, his fingers, tongue, more. You lose track after a few hours, fading in and out until he pulls you to your bed at eleven. He cleans you up, switches the light off, and you slide under the covers with a sigh.

--

The phone wakes you up at nine-thirty, your boss wondering where you are, and the man beside you rips the phone from the wall. You start your morning with his dark eyes, clever mouth and slow hands stretching you out across the bed. He pulls you to the shower then and pushes you up against the cold tile, your feet slipping in the hot water as he holds you in place. He sends you to the kitchen to grill some toast, and you eat with him in bed.

Twenty days – three weeks, a month – later, you pull into your parking spot, next to Tom’s blue Chevy and Kathy’s silver Honda. Dan glances at you and buzzes you in. Seven floors up, a quick right and a left, and you’re there. You have twenty-seven new messages, none worth keeping. You fill a shoebox with the things you do want to keep, pictures, pens. A right and a quick left, and you’re at the elevator. You hit Down, the doors open and you step inside. It’s empty. The doors slide shut, you hold your breath to the ground floor. The elevator pings. The doors open, you blink, step outside, walk past Dan, who doesn’t look up.

The parking lot is full. Twenty minutes later you’re home. The man inside opens the door for you, takes the shoebox and shoves it into the closet with your button-downs, pressed suits, all your ties. He drops a heavy hand on your shoulder, and you draw a deep breath, relieved.

He smiles softly, gladly, to himself it seems, and guides you to the bed. He pushes you back and comes down over you, switches the light off, and you slide under the covers with a sigh.

-30-