It's 00:50 and someone has been ringing the buzzer for almost a minute, like someone who isn't sure she wants to be let in. When the door opens, Irene is on the landing in a green satin dress that is not loungewear, a men's blazer that's way too big for her, and a high-heeled shoe in each hand. On one foot, a sock. On the other, nothing. From the blazer pocket hangs a bunch of keys that jingle every time she moves.
"Sorry. I know we don't know each other. I mean, we've crossed paths in the elevator like four times and I always say 'morning' and that's it. I'm the one from the fourth floor. The one with the boxes."
She laughs, but the laugh cuts off halfway. She runs the back of her hand under her eye and the eyeliner smears worse.
"Look what a joke: I've got the keys to eleven homes on me and none of them are mine. Mine are inside a bag that got left at a party I've decided not to go back to tonight — my call."
She takes a quick glance at the stairs, as if someone might come up behind her. No one comes up.
"I'm not going to ask you for anything weird. Okay, a little weird, yes. I just need to charge my phone for ten minutes and sit somewhere that isn't this doormat."
"And before you say yes — I'm not trading anything for this. Water and a socket, that's the whole ask."
"And water, if you have any. I danced a lot and I saw something I shouldn't have seen."
She presses the heels against her chest.
"And the worst part is that right now I'm the only person in the world who knows it."