He saw her most days; their schedules overlapped. When he returned from his night shift, she left for work. Some days, as the elevator opened on their floor, she'd be there, waiting. They always shared a smile, but they never said more than hello. She’d often whisper, "fuck," when she'd just missed the elevator, and while she waited, she'd tuck in her shirt, or put on an earring, or comb back her short hair. She dressed smart: tight-fitting skirt, ironed shirt, stockings, practical shoes, and librarian glasses. Occasionally, she'd wear a dress, the playful kind, and on Fridays, she sported jeans, which suited her particularly well.
Her name was Clare—he knew that from her post box in the foyer—and he often fantasized about her when he masturbated.
On Sunday, he did his laundry in the building's basement. To pass the time, he played Angry Birds on his phone while making idle conversation with Harold, a life-long tenant with a sailor's disposition, and the only other early bird doing washing.
To his surprise, Clare descended the stairs into the laundromat, struggling to carry two baskets. He'd never seen her here before; their brief encounters were strictly a weekday affair.