I turn the key in the ignition and scan through the radio stations, pleased to hear other voices beside my father’s.
Hip-hop. Rap. New Age.
Anything. Everything.
I pull away from the curb, reaching down for the mysterious note in my lap, and heading to my apartment, driving slowly through hard rain.
Twenty minutes later, I sit outside the townhouse building of my apartment with the car still running.
The dark scrim of night is opaque like thick soup. I look to where the bottle of Russian Standard Vodka sits in a brown paper bag on the passenger seat.
Booze: my favorite vice.
I turn off the car and grab the paper bag next to me. I open the door and step out into the empty street. The air is moist and fragrant and I smell lavender, jasmine, and honeysuckle wafting past me from a neighboring garden.
I slam the car door shut, lock it, and run up the cobblestone walkway to the apartment’s front door.
Inside, I shake off the rain and notice that the elevator is out of service.