the fumes.

The elevator at Washington Heights reeked of stale urine, smoke, and hopelessness. The light was out behind the 5 button, but Delilah always ended up in the right place. Today she was lucky enough to be alone. The other day she'd ended up with the old woman from the penthouse, blushing on the silent end of a painfully one-sided conversation about Mahjong. The woman reminded Delilah of the familiar Annapolis suburbs – polite, jovial, trapped.
Delilah was free.

505. The numbers, Delilah imagined, used to sparkle. Now, the brass reflected nothing but the solemn aura of the hall, building, block, and city. Delilah turned the doorknob five times before pushing it open. The small apartment smelled of Lysol and awkward wealth. The decor contrasted sharply with the room itself, but in a strange way it all fit. She closed the door quietly behind her and walked carefully towards the small kitchen. She'd had the floors redone – wide-board hardwood. Getting around was more difficult, but the thought of what horrors resided in that old carpet had prevented Delilah from sleeping at night.
She placed the five grocery bags on the narrow counter and began stowing her groceries in the proper place. She frowned at the expectant space in the cupboard for the coffee tin. Every object in Delilah's home had a place. Delilah envied them. She doused the room with five quick clouds of Lysol before gingerly walking away.
The plush red couch sat right by the small window. Sometimes it seemed almost alive – a sleeping beast in an urban jungle. Avoiding the cracks in her floor, Delilah made her way to the slumbering sofa, arranged the five white throw pillows in a straight line, delicately removed her muddy shoes, and sank crossed-legged into the cushions. From her window, Delilah could see the amicable butcher small-talking with one of his regulars outside of the shop – a modern day Buddha. She saw a woman walking down the street that she didn't recognize. The walk was confident. High heels and high expectations. This new woman stuck out like a sore thumb in the complacently miserable neighborhood surrounding Washington Heights.
With the heartless, gray day leaving the streets mostly deserted, Delilah let her eyes wander to the opposite wall. The surface was nearly completely covered by tiny frames. Each held a single post card. She had fifty at the moment – five neat columns of ten frames hung triumphantly from tiny nails. They were all from her brother. France, Tibet, Venezuela, Kenya, New Zealand. He'd seen the world. He was a traveling linguist – learning the language, finding a job, moving on. He was 25 and fluent in 31 languages.
Delilah was 27 and couldn't master one.
As the lump of disappointment and self loathing began to lodge itself in Delilah's unused vocal chords, an unfamiliar sound drifted into her room. A unique impulse took hold of her. Leaving her shoes behind, Delilah tiptoed back to her door. The sound became clearer – more poignantly gentle. She turned the doorknob five times before cracking it open. The usual blast of sorrow she felt upon entering the hallway was softened by the easy pluck, twang, and croon cascading like a weightless river from the dingy stairway. Forgetting where and who she was, Delilah sank, her back against her door frame, onto the floor and listened. The voice was too far away for her to make out words – they betrayed her always – but the sounds themselves held her like a caterpillar in the cupped hands of a child. Warm, genuine, secure. She closed her eyes and remained completely motionless until the music faded and then stopped. As though plucked from paradise, her soul still in recovery, Delilah, in a daze, got up and walked back through her still open doorway –
high on the fumes of unexpected change.