Scars of the pst

— Someone cut your neck, girl! My eyes widen and I slowly turn to face the elderly gentleman next to me. He presses the elevator up button and looks at me. He smiles and points to my neck. — Your birthmark — he comments. My hand automatically goes up to my neck, touching the coin-sized mark just below my ear. — My grandfather used to say that the location of a birthmark reveals how someone lost their life in a fight in a previous life. It looks like you were cut in the neck. It was probably a quick death. I smile, but I don’t know if I should feel scared or amused. Despite the morbid tone with which he began the conversation, he doesn’t seem all that threatening. His hunched posture and slow movements indicate that he must be about 82 years old. He walks slowly to one of the two red velvet armchairs against the wall near the elevator. He lets out a groan as he settles into the armchair and then looks back at me. — Are you going to the 18th floor? My eyes narrow as I try to process the question. Somehow, he knows which floor I’m going to, even though this is the first time I’ve entered this building and certainly the first time I’ve seen this man. — Yes, sir — I reply, a little suspicious. — Do you work here? — Yes, I do. He gestures toward the elevator, and my eyes drift to the numbers glowing above. Ten floors to go before he leaves; I hope it doesn’t take too long. — I’m the one who pushes the elevator buttons — he says. — I don’t think that’s the official name for my job, but I prefer to call myself a flight operator, since I take people up to 18 stories. I smile at what he says, since my brother and father are both pilots. — How long have you been the operator of this elevator? — I ask as I wait. I swear this is the slowest elevator I’ve ever seen. — Since I got too old to take care of the maintenance of this building. I worked here for 32 years before I became an operator. I’ve been sending people on flights for about 23 years, I think. The owner gave me this job out of pity, to keep me busy until I was gone. — He smiles to himself. — But what he didn’t expect is that God gave me plenty of reasons to keep living, so I’m going to stick around for a while longer. — Bless my life, and now I’m so late I don’t think I’ll ever die. I find myself laughing as the elevator doors finally open. I bend down to grab the handle of my suitcase and turn to him one more time before stepping into the elevator. — What’s your name? — Joseph, but you can call me Joseph — he replies. — That’s what everyone calls me. — Do you have a birthmark, Joseph? He smiles. — Actually, I do. It looks like I got hit in my ass in my past life by a bullet. That must have been bad. I smile and raise my hand to my forehead, giving him a captain’s salute. I step into the elevator and turn toward the open doors, admiring the opulence of the lobby. This place looks more like a historic hotel than a condominium, with its imposing columns and marble floors. When Leandro told me I could stay with him until I got a job, I had no idea I would be living like a real adult. I imagined it would be similar to the last time I visited him, right after I graduated from high school, when he started working on his pilot’s license. That was five years ago, in a much simpler building. It was what I expected. I certainly wasn’t prepared for a skyscraper right in the center of São Tomé. I find the panel and press the button for the 20th floor, then look up at the mirrored wall of the elevator. I spent all day yesterday and most of this morning packing up everything from my old apartment in San Diego. Thankfully, I don’t have much. But after driving about 600 miles today, my exhaustion is quite evident in my reflection. My hair is pulled up in a messy bun on top of my head, held together by a pencil, since I couldn’t find a rubber band while driving. My eyes, which are a similar brown to my brown hair, now look several shades darker thanks to the dark circles that have formed beneath them. I dig through my bag for a tube of lip balm, hoping to save my lips before they start looking as worn as the rest of me. As the elevator doors begin to close, they open again. A man comes running toward the elevator, ready to step inside. He recognizes the elderly man. — Thanks, Joseph — he says. I can’t see Cap from inside the elevator, but I hear him mumble something in response. He doesn’t seem as willing to talk to this man as he was to me. The new passenger looks to be in his thirties, at most. He gives me a smile, and I can tell exactly what’s going on in his head, considering he discreetly slips his left hand into his pocket. The hand with the wedding ring. — Tenth floor — he says, not looking at me. His eyes quickly drop to the low neckline of my shirt and then to the suitcase next to me. I nod, though I doubt he notices, since his gaze is nowhere near my face. — Which floor? — he asks. Oh, no, really. I reach over and cover all the buttons on the panel with my hands, hiding the button for the 20th floor that’s lit up, and then press all the buttons between the 12th and 20th floors. He looks at the panel, confused. — None of your business — I reply. He laughs. He thinks I’m joking. He arches a dark, thick eyebrow. It’s a nice eyebrow. Connected to a nice face, which is connected to a nice head, which is connected to a nice body. A married man. Idiot. He smiles seductively after seeing me studying him—except I wasn’t looking at him the way he imagines. In my head, I was thinking about how many times that body had been glued to a woman who wasn’t his wife. I feel sorry for his wife. He returns to staring at my cleavage as we reach the twelfth floor. — I can help with that — he says, pointing to my suitcase. His voice is alluring. I wonder how many women have fallen for that married man’s voice. He walks over to me and reaches for the panel, boldly pressing the button to close the doors. I catch his eye and press the button to open them again. — I can handle it — I say. He nods as if he understands, but there’s still a mischievous glint in his eyes that reinforces my immediate dislike. He steps out of the elevator and turns to face me before walking away. — See you around, Tate — he says as the doors close. I frown, uncomfortable with the fact that the two people I’ve interacted with since arriving in this building already know my name. I’m alone in the elevator as it stops at each floor until it finally reaches the twentieth. I step out, grab my phone from my pocket, and open the messages for Corbin. I don’t remember the apartment number he mentioned. Was it 1614 or 1612? Or maybe 1626? I stop in front of 1612 because there’s a guy passed out in the hallway, leaning against the door to 1614. Please, don’t let it be 1614. I find the message on my phone and sigh. It’s 1614. Of course it is. I walk slowly to the door, hoping not to wake the guy. His legs are...