Bridget

He has a difficult time trying to explain the state of the ground.

It’s a greyish, cement color, the kind of color that doesn’t show a stain if someone were to spill juice on it. Practical. Convenient.

There are spots, like freckles on skin, scattered across the length of floor. A section of a chip that has fallen on the ground, the sides sodden with spit and the edges raw from careless teeth. A wad of tissue, probably from a nose blown not too long ago, telling from it’s greenish-yellow hue. A dead roach.

But now, as he approaches the door at the end of this floor, edging past tissues and leaves and flyers that brush past polished shoes, he stops.

He hears.

“Hello?”

The man turns, all but swinging his bag into a potted plant. He catches it with his foot before the leaves touch the floor, and he sighs in relief, bending over to place it carefully back into position.

He must have misheard, because there is no one there.

It must have been the wind. Or the parents next door, who he had just seen dragging their son by the ear out of the lift.

Nevertheless, he straightens up, pulling his tie with a sharp tug, and proceeds.

~~~~ Heyyyy i'm 14 so is this good for my standard ( what is even the standard?) YEah thanks