The Low Life

Sunlight hit the weave of the charcoal rug at the foot of his bed. He rolled to his side, watching the light illuminate each thread. He traced intricate fibers with his eyes.

His gaze shifted to the polished mahogany floorboards. Each groove in the wood is a testament to imperfect design mastery. He slid out of bed like a reluctant sloth, chin tucked tightly against his collarbone.

​The shifting patterns of the wood guided him to different rooms. The lower part of his walls was eggshell white. A small mirror tilted downward reflected the porcelain rim of the sink. Not the most usable mirror, but the upgraded pull-out mirror was above his pay grade. Just below the edge of the sink, a little drawer held his shaver, toothbrush, and floss.

He shaved by touch, his left hand acting as a scout for the razor in his right. It was a slow, rhythmic pace tracing the razor across his jawline. With each stroke, the blade grew closer to his neck. Dangerous intimacy resulted in tiny dots of blood dripping on his chest. His chin hid the marks on his face.

He finished, tapping the foam off the shaver. His eyes remained fixed on the drain, mesmerized by the way the foam spiraled into the dark, thirsty throat of the pipe.

He skipped breakfast, opting for a brunch later in the day. Dressed in black shoes, a black jacket, and a black tie, completing his morning routine. At the front door, he paused. He adjusted his collar, ensuring it was crisp and centered. Then, he waited for the muffled sound of the hallway. When he heard the rhythmic shuffle of feet, he counted to ten and turned the handle.

​His eyes caught sight of the beige trench coat hem passing him. It moved toward the elevator. As he approached the lift, he recognized the way her trousers lay perfectly over her ankles. It was Sarah from 4C.

He fell in step behind her, keeping a respectful three-foot distance. They entered the elevator in silence. Sarah’s gaze was fixed on the brass plating of the hip-level floor-selection buttons. He studied the intricate scrollwork on the elevator carpet. He counted each fiber to pass the time. In all the years they crossed paths, they never spoke.

​The doors opened to the lobby, a collage of worn, polished stone. Advertisements for the latest products were etched into the floor:

Does your floor reflect the sun a bit too much? Well, you need the Sun Stopper 3000! Blackout guaranteed or your money back!

In the next marble tile, another ad with painted neon pink letters.

Peripheral Privacy Blinders for the whole family! Block out needless glare. Walking or running, we've got your sides covered!

​He navigated the morning rush with ease. He memorized the cityscape by its sidewalk cracks. Spots with trampled weeds showed the busy path to work. A pair of red stilettos hurried past, followed by the heavy, rhythmic thud of construction boots. He allowed the rush hour traffic to pass by.

At a street crossing, tiny sneakers planted themselves firmly on the concrete. An auburn-haired child, no more than 3 years old. His hair was curled from end to end. The mother gripped his hand tightly.

​The boy’s head began to tilt, his chin rose. The mother reacted instantaneously. She placed a hand firmly over her son’s eyes. Gently but with urgency, she pushed his head down with her other hand. She pressed until his forehead touched his chest. The shrill of the walk alarm echoed off the concrete. The mother and child blended back into the flow of foot traffic.

He arrived at work on time. The rotating doors spun, but he took the stationary door. He made his way to the basement floor and settled in for the day.

​The desks were low, and the monitors were angled upward from the mahogany surface. Each cubicle held one or two employees.

He saw the sharp crease of his charcoal slacks and the brilliant shine of his oxfords. Mr. Henderson, his manager, hovered over his workstation.

​" Are the quarterly reports done?" Henderson said.

​"I will have them on your desk by noon, sir," he replied, his eyes tracing the subtle grain of Henderson's leather belt. The manager tapped the edge of the desk three times, signaling approval.

The day continued. Typing reports was his least favorite activity. He didn't make it to brunch, but it didn't matter. The raspy alarm signaled that work was over.

He returned to his apartment and locked the door. He sat on the edge of his bed in the deepening gloom. Too complacent to undress. His head propped up on a fluffy pillow, supporting his neck tightly pressed downward.

No lamp, no light switch. He lay back, staring at his chest. Nothing but his black suit and dots of blood.