10 glasses

(short story. comments welcome.)

I see. I see all of it everyday when I step down my 10th floor apartment in the morning, and when I drag self up in the evening.

My new home is on the 10th floor. My colleagues are jealous. It was just yesterday when Kim said, "I am planning to get a house there. My husband and I are working on the financing. How much rent do you pay for it?" for the third time in the day.

I know Kim. She is a planning-addict, not an execution one. She plans, and I let her.

This apartment is building is indeed a complex (pun intended) purchase. All the houses in this building have a transparent, bullet-proof glass main door. People who purchase an apartment have to sign an additional clause in the agreement that they will not try to replace the transparent door with another one, or try to curtain it up. The apartment authority takes care of any replacements for damaged glass doors (if there is, ever, since the glass is bullet-proof), and the owners renting out the place make the tenants sign the same clause in the agreement (I did too!) It is scary, to have your living room visible to anyone passing by your door. It carries a certain thrill that entices people to buy or rent homes here. I cannot narrow down my feelings to something in particular, but in the end, I got a house on rent.

It's a new morning. Again. How many mornings do I have to wake up to emptiness next to me? I think I know the answer, but I'm too afraid to know that I know.

The same shower. The same perfume. I am getting ready.

As I move around the living room to prepare the breakfast, I glance through the glass door if anyone is peeping in. There is nobody. There has not been anybody for long.

I turn the door knob, and come out. It squeaks. I oiled it three days ago, and it started squeaking again. Why do doors have to behave like humans?

I glance quickly at the door near the stairs. Raz is exercising again. I could never understand two things about him. Why does he have a name that sounds like a dog's? And why does he exercise in his living room wearing shirt and jeans? We have one of the most well-quipped gymnasium in the town, but Raz prefers his living room, fully-clothed.

My legs are stretching up to the stairs today after the long weekend.

9th floor. I don't even have to glance to know what's going on behind that glass door near the stairs. Still I do. I see smoke coming out of the toaster in the open kitchen besides the living room. If I stand here for 5 more seconds, Dorothy will come running and will try to take out the blackened loafs of bread and will drop one of them on the floor in the process. I never bothered to check what happens to the one that falls on the floor. She works in the office next to me, and I sometimes wonder if she actually sprints to the office everyday to reach there at almost the same time as I do.

8th floor. Why would an old couple live in a 8th floor house at a time when 2nd floor ones are available? Mrs. Parker cannot operate the buttons in the elevator, so she uses the stairs every time, stepping one by one painfully. She is knitting a sweater for her granddaughter, who lives far away. It's a blue one today; I saw the red one almost finished on Friday. I don't know where Mr. Parker is. I rarely see him going out anywhere. He probably prefers his bed and TV most of the time.

7th floor. Jenny is talking loudly on her phone. I can hear her, but can't see her. She's not in the living room, but she usually talks very loud to her boyfriend every morning. That's the only time they get to talk it seems. She is a bartender in a nearby pub, and comes home early morning. I sometimes think it's funny her boyfriend still keeps up with her. Their work timings do not allow them to meet regularly even over the weekends. I don't know what drives their relationship.

I take a halt here. 30 seconds of motionless comfort. My legs need that; I can't walk or run continuously for long. Doctors tell me it's a problem with my knees, and at this early age, I have to be careful.

6th floor. I don't know their names, but the two women who live here are rumored to be married. To each other. I haven't seen them talking to other apartment neighbors, though I don't know whether it's them who don't like to socialize, or it's the neighbors who prefer to stay away. Both of them work in a big reputed bank, and are pretty successful at what they do, from what I've heard. Smart, savvy women of this century - I don't wonder much why they preferred each other instead of resorting to men. I see one of them reading the newspaper, while the other is singing loudly while cooking in the kitchen.

5th floor. Peter is not in his living room, but I know he would have just returned from his night patrol. He is well-respected in the community, for he is the one who single-handedly captured two robbers when Mrs. Parker screamed from 8th floor. A police officer, a strongly built man, and a sharp mind - you get it.

I take another halt. Some say it's love that makes people go weak in knees. I am not sure if that's what driving my knees crazy.

4th floor. I hear the song, and I recognize it. "eh eh eh ... under my umbrella". If there's one person who would be dancing to Rihanna's cool dance singles at this hour of morning, it would be Parry. That's his nickname I know this Indian by. He is a drummer and occasional vocalist for an Indian boy band. I have never known him to go to 'work' except for watching some of his performances at the local community gatherings.

3rd floor. I walk hurriedly in front of this glass door, trying to steal a quick glance. Mike, the drunkard Englishman, has probably beaten up his wife again. Amy is Chinese, and has a successful career as a consultant. Somehow, she turns weak when she is at home. She's lying on the couch, sobbing in silence. I see Mike's shoes besides the couch. He must have returned in the morning drunk, and I don't want to imagine once again the scene I witnessed one morning when I started early.

2nd floor. Nobody lives here. Sammy, the brilliant, suave, and sexy lady who committed suicide in this particular house last month didn't leave a proper will behind her. Her siblings are still fighting over who owns the apartment after her unexpected death. I don't think it was unexpected though. She was a compulsive date machine - she never stood for long with boys who liked her, and she could not get the boys whom she liked. With so many heartbreaks behind her, depression was the only inevitable outcome. She finally succumbed to it. I don't know how her 'lovers' would have taken the news.

I curb the urge to take another halt at this point. It's just one more floor.

1st floor. Michelle, my friend, is getting her two kids ready for school. Paul is trying to perfect the knot of his necktie in the mirror. I never figured or asked Michelle why they kept the mirror in the living room, but I think it makes sense for a family that is running around to every corner in the morning. Michelle and Paul fell in love back in college, and it took them 7 long years of dating before Michelle was convinced Paul was the one for her. It took another 2 years for her to convince Paul she was the one. I hear them arguing all the time, but every time it's an intelligent argument, and they never take their arguments to bed, if I believe what Michelle tells me.

It's a sunny, cold day. I already know what to expect from these glass doors when I return in the evening.

The Other Side

(short story. comments welcome.)
(Credits: I just attempted to paint another side of Nutty's post. Read hers first.)

I don't know why my parents named me Keith. I never liked that name. Imagine schoolmates having fun at my expense, 'Keith Keith, Funky Teeth'. OK - I got some funny looking teeth in front, but so what?

But I do not plan to talk about myself. It's about this lovely lady who lives in the apartment complex across the street from my bank. I first noticed her walking to work from the window next to my seat. I always wanted that window seat, and that day I realized why. I could just watch her in morning walking brisk, looking at her wrist watch every few seconds. My boss never knew why I started showing up early in the morning despite my Kirsch hangovers. She was the reason.

One day, I saw her walking in to our bank. Was she our customer? I didn't know THAT. It turned out she wasn't. She had come to see one of my colleagues - Marc. I saw Marc and her having a quick chatter, which seemed to turn into an argument. I couldn't listen much through the glass, but both of them looked annoyed towards the end. She did not have a good expression on her face when she left. Neither did Marc.

I finally dared and asked Marc over lunch, "Who was that woman that came to see you today?" He stopped eating, and stared at me. Then after a few seconds, he suddenly blurted, "Oh her? She is a good friend." I sighed in relief. I dreaded hearing something like "She's my girlfriend" or "fiancée". But Good Lord - she was just a friend. Marc is known to be an honest and open person, so I trusted him at that. I didn't ask anything about their argument. Instead, I opened my position, "She is very pretty." He stopped eating again, stared at me for a while, and then smiled. "She is very nice too. You like her?", he put the question forward. I was not expecting that. "Umm... yeah. I want to know more about her.", I somehow managed to articulate that. He drew me closer and whispered, "Why don't you go ahead and talk to her? I know she hurt her foot today, so very sure she is not going to work for a few days. Why don't you send her some flowers?"

OK, I am not the kind of guy who would send a bunch of blossoms to a woman I never talked to. I can be very open and confident, well... sometimes, but this is way out of my methods. But I find myself nodding in affirmation.

After a full day of 'tutoring' by Marc, I had it all planned out. Send flowers. Present myself. Talk to her. Help her out. Be nice. Get to know her better. Marc warned me not to tell her about my conversations with him. I was supposed to refer to the 'cleaning lady' for any source of information I got.

Marc even knew what flowers she liked. He was the one who ordered and paid for them. I marveled at the details he knew about his friend. We saw the delivery boy go into the apartment building. I was ready to go. Marc tapped on my shoulder and whispered, "I have also ordered some donuts from the bakery she stops for coffee on her way to work. She loves them. And remember, she doesn't like it if you eat them before she does." How thoughtful of him! I never understood why a man would do all this for another, but this guy was wonderful. He was actually helping me out to get along with his friend. Such nice guys don't exist anymore.

The delivery boy was done. My heart was pounding loudly. I knocked. There she was. So beautiful, with her hair falling on her face, and a zing of sleepiness in her eyes. Her foot really hurt it seemed, because she was about to fall when I caught her inches from the floor. I can't explain what went through my heart and body at that time. The woman I had been watching for so long, was in my arms.

The rest, it all went as planned. I made coffee for her, and she liked it. The only unexpected part was the knock on the door, which turned out to be a delivery-boy with donuts. For some reason, he seemed like the same delivery boy wearing a different shirt. Was I going crazy with suspicion at that moment of time? I shrugged any such thoughts, and handled the situation at hand. She apparently wasn't expecting something like donuts for her breakfast, but she liked them. I think she had started liking my presence, except for an instant where she suddenly asked me to leave. I knew how to handle that situation; Marc had taught me well. I brought her phone's receiver and told her she could call the cops if she wished, and I would actually leave before it is even needed. I was there to help her. She understood. I could see the trust in her eyes.

After taking her pain killers, she was almost falling asleep. I think my coffee didn't work. I was massaging her foot. It was a lovely time - I would have lost myself in the beauty of the moment had I not heard another knock on the door.

Another knock. I hated to get up, and check who it was.
Marc. With two other men I had never seen before.

Marc hurried into the room. He looked at her and smiled. I couldn't understand what that smile meant. I had never seen Marc with that smile ... it looked vicious. He didn't pause for long though. He instructed the two men who had barged in along with him, "Go look for the photographs. I'll take care of her." Now, that alarmed me. What was going on? Marc clearly didn't seem to have good intentions here. Then something hit me from behind. I didn't know what, but I dropped on the floor.

Next, I find myself looking at the open sky. I am on a terrace - probably the same apartment complex. My arms and legs have been tied - I can't move. Trying to shuffle around, my right arm hurts. There's a used injection and syringe lying on a side. It seems they injected something - I can't figure out what.

I don't know what happened at her apartment after that. I hope she's still OK. The sky is getting blurry again, and my head is getting heavier. Is it what they injected? I don't know... I hope she's still OK.....