The Super

As Richard closed his door he saw a light on in the apartment opposite and as he hovered in the doorway, head craning out a jut, a curtain twitched and then hung slack and then nothing. The light went off a second later. The apartment had been empty for as long as he had lived there.

The Super answered the door on the second knock, dressed in a singlet and wiping food from the corners of his mouth with a dirty-looking tea-towel.
“What is it?” He said.
“My place, 36G’s been vandalised again – someone’s spray painted all over the grill and window into the hall.”
“I’ll attend to it as soon as I can. Probably be the day after tomorrow, depending.”
Richard nodded his thanks, but remained in the doorway. The Super frowned and shook his head. “Is there something else?”
“Has someone moved into the place opposite me?”
“Up on 36? I’ll check the books. Excuse me.” He pushed the door closed again, it stuck in the frame before it thudded closed. It reopened with the security chain on. The Super trundled away into the mirk and Richard could see a small TV playing some game show over in the corner and behind that velvet-red curtains with long dark stains in the folds. And Rosie for 10 points… who am I? I was born in 1938, the son of a famous industrialist… On the arm of a threaded couch lay some glossy girlie magazine. A smell of refried beans and canola oil blew out into the cold corridor. “Yeah, someone’s moved in, under the name Ruanna. Moved in yesterday. Her application was accepted a week prior. Problem?”
Richard refocused from the TV to the Super. “Sorry? No, no problem. I just wondered. I thought I saw a light on in there, that’s all.”
“Yeah? Well that’ll be them then won’t it?”
“Well yeah I guess so.”
“Anything else?”
“No. Thanks. Have a good night.”
“I’ll try.” He said rubbing his neck before the door slammed shut.
Richard headed back off down the hall. Then a thought seized him and he lashed out with his boot against the wall. Fucking wanker. It must be a hard life getting interrupted by actual legitimate fucking work in the middle of jerking off to some mag while a big-titted contestant plays dumb on Sale of the Century. He can go to hell. “Wanker!” He shouted and caught the face of a frightened girl peering out at him through a foggy window, features distorted by the grill before her breath fogged the window further and she vanished a moment later.

Image sourced from: www.everythingnotrelated.com/ 2004_01_01_archives