Living in New york, one should be happy. There’s enough material security and financial resources, no need to stick to a rigid work schedule, and a close-knit group of friends. For me, this is happiness and satisfaction.
I live on the edge of a bustling downtown business circle. It’s a good neighborhood, with a few high-rise buildings and excellent property management. Most residents have a solid economic foundation. Though I’m not exactly one of them, my willingness to spend on essentials has allowed me to blend in.
I have an unpredictable daily routine. I leave my building at various times and return only late at night or early in the morning. It’s rare to encounter anyone, yet I managed to run into her.
Our first meeting was unremarkable. I was in the elevator, and just as the doors were about to close, she hurriedly called out. I quickly pressed the open button, giving her a chance to share the elevator with me.
“Thanks,” she said politely. Her attire and the small suitcase she was dragging indicated her profession—a flight attendant.At the same time, I also noticed that her earrings were still swaying from the recent run. They were an attractive pair, adding a touch of elegance to her appearance. This profession, often seen as glamorous, was enticing to someone like me, though some might dismiss it as high-altitude waitressing.
I smiled and nodded, aiming to leave a good impression. We might never have the chance to know each other, but making a good impression on a beautiful woman is always a good idea. Who knows, I often think, when a beautiful woman’s mood might work in my favor. However, this remains a mere fantasy for now.
The elevator stopped at the 15th floor, and I continued alone to the 17th floor, where I live. Since then, I hoped each elevator ride would stop at the 15th floor. We shared the elevator many times, but never spoke.
One day, I saw her with a tall, handsome young man in a uniform. They seemed like a couple. This man’s appearance outclassed mine, leading me to abandon my daydreams about her.
Yet, fate brought her back into my life.
“Hey, wake up. How can you sleep on someone else’s bench?” I found her in the neighborhood, clearly drunk.
“Eh?” she looked at me confusedly. Even in the late-night lighting, I could see her flushed face and smell the alcohol. She was completely inebriated.
“Hey, react or I’ll have to take you home,” I tried to rouse her, but she remained unresponsive. She was too drunk to move.
“Where do you live?” I knew she lived on the 15th floor but not the exact apartment. She leaned on me heavily, ignoring my questions. In the elevator, she suddenly vomited on both of us.
In desperation, I took her to my place on the 17th floor.
Early the next morning, I awoke on the couch to her yelling from my room. She emerged, wearing my oversized t-shirt.
“What did you do to me?” she demanded, angry and suspicious.
Half-awake, I shook my head, “I don’t remember doing anything.”
“What do you mean you don’t remember?” Her question startled me, and I fell off the couch.
“You animal! You…” She began throwing things at me. Luckily, I managed to dodge most of them, though my clay ashtray wasn’t as fortunate.
A knock on the door saved me. Auntie Smith,my kind-hearted part-time housekeeper, stood there. The girl had hidden somewhere.
“Mr.Scofield, how is the girl?” Auntie Smith asked with a smile. She’s a retired engineer who helps me clean in exchange for computer lessons for her grandson.
“She’s fine, still asleep,” I replied, hoping to avoid trouble.
“Really? I’ve washed and dried her clothes. Should I help her change?” Auntie Wang offered.
“No, she can manage on her own,” I replied, smiling awkwardly.
After Auntie Smith left, the girl reappeared, staring at me with a mix of amusement and annoyance.
“Are you okay?” I asked cautiously. She didn’t respond, just stared.
“Here are your clothes,” I said, placing them on the couch.
She finally laughed softly and asked, “Where’s the restroom?”
