There was a man in the laundry room so I lifted my head as I approached, I lifted my eyes. Nothing. He kept sorting solemnly his remaining clothes into the two machines.

John is the surly, quiet doorman. He wears glasses that droop a little too far down his nose, so when you walk in or out, and say hello, and he lifts his tired, jowly head he has to lift it a bit too far so that he's seeing you through his lenses. He's hunched over but his head is tilted back and he's struggling to see you through the glasses with the light from up above glinting off them too.

"Hi John."

Silence.

"Hello. Sir," his last syllable dissolving into a whisper, then a breath. And then he puts his head back down again.