Their schedules overlapped. In the early hours of the morning, when he returned from his night shift, she would leave for work.
He’d catch her in the elevator where they always shared a polite smile and a neighbourly “hello”, but no more than that.
She liked to dressed smart. Pencil skirt, ironed shirt, stockings, practical shoes. Occasionally, she’d wear a dress, bright-coloured and playful, and on Fridays, she sported tight-fitting jeans that showed off her figure.
Her name was Clare, and he often fantasised about her when he masturbated.
—
On Sunday, he did his laundry in the building’s basement laundromat. To pass the time, he browsed Insta 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 basement, juggling two baskets of dirty laundry. He’d never seen her here before. Their brief encounters were strictly a weekday affair.
“Here, let me help,” he said, taking a basket from her.
She was barefoot and wore a t-shirt and denim hotpants.
“Thanks. My mum’s machine broke,” she explained.