I haul groceries to my fourth-floor studio one landing at a time. My bottle of discounted rum, a 5 lb. sack of potatoes, and a rocket-shaped golden squash—so irresistible at the market—anchor me down like sandbags. Around me wafts the dinners of my neighbors. Sweat drips from my face and armpits. At my door, I dig for keys, but they escape, bounce off my knee, and land at the balcony’s edge. Sighing, I set my bags upon a nondescript pattern of mauve and cream tiles. Below me, a door opens, Landlady Busybody’s.
“Mrs. Queen,” she says.
“What now?” I sound unjustly exasperated. Busybody is not her real name—I name characters outside my books too. I snatch up my keys.
“The rent…”
“The rent? What about the elevator?”
“It was working.” She addresses her words more to the ether than to me.
“I’ll pay you next week,” I promise and ferry my groceries across the threshold. “But you better fix the damn elevator.”
Inside, I lean against my door and breath once luxuriously. Because emptiness terri…