CONVERSATION 180111

‘Thanks. Great. Phew. Thanks,’ he said, as breathless and capitalised as that.
‘Okay,’ I said, keeping my cool.
‘Thanks,’ he said, taking up the position on the right hand side at the front of the lift. ‘That’s great.’
He’d come into view as the doors were closing but on seeing him I pressed the button opened the door, held the lift.
‘It’s frustrating,’ he said, ‘isn’t it, when you come in and the lift is just leaving or just left…’
‘…and it goes all the way to the top or close to it,’ I said, ‘as often as not.’
‘Still,’ he said, ‘it isn’t long to wait, is it?’
‘About a minute and a half straight up and down no stops in between,’ I said. ‘Longer, obviously, if it picks up or drops off a couple or few.’
‘That’s true,’ he said. ‘Anyway, I thought I’d missed the rain but I got out the underpass and whoosh, downpour. I’m soaked, look at me.’
I looked at him.
‘I was on Dove Street after the café and deluge,’ I said. ‘I got wet too.’
The lift stopped, door opened, he got out.
‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘Bye.’
‘Bye,’ I said.
I’ve seen him in the block through the years. This was the first time we’ve had any kind of conversation.