An unused truck dock evidences the building’s original industrial usage. A list of names on ramshackle mail boxes suggest its conversion to living quarters for the avant garde.
My hand shakes as I press the button for the name provided by the sleuth – ‘B. Kwon’. A buzzer sounds to release the electronic lock. At midday the loft’s resident does not fear mayhem and my entrance is granted without need for identification.
Step, step, step… each footfall brings a memory, reminding of an unfulfilled need, and women of purpose and disdain for the male. I enter a foyer littered with unwanted junk mail.
The elevator proves to also be industrial. Old, slow, grubby, it grinds. With normal feet I would take the stairs, but with my destination being the top floor of eight, I will endure the intermin
