Did I tell you about the shady business down the hall? Garbage bins line the walls overflowing pizza crust and piss-yellow Mountain Dew.
Locked outside my office, cigarette smoke snakes in the cracks. That incense will never manage to mask the funk. Parroting words from four doors down, is there something that I can help you with? The buzz from empty office lines and feminine tone knows that they can’t. Avon make up or vacuum cleaners? Too tame for the siren of their product, and I’d listen to their pitch despite no obligation. Only Lotusland would welcome this. The rank of clogged toilets and stagnant body odor, they mill in the open as mongrels swarm the prospect of their next lunch hour. Their secret trade titillates the other patrons- phone sex operators, happy endings, their grime advocates only back alley transactions. The trope of skid row for next month’s fee.