Thirty
The penthouse apartment of the high-rise building I’m in has floor-to-ceiling glass in every room, allowing the city lights to twinkle through. They illuminate the apartment’s interior, making it easy to see where I’m going. I creep down a curving stairway constructed from nothing more than slim, black pieces of wood inserted into the wall on one side. I suppose the stairway’s meant to be arty and minimalist, but I find myself wondering how many people have tripped down it. I reach the bottom and scan the open room displaying paintings on walls and sculptures on pedestals. A pole-like bookcase with flat pieces of wood attached to it like branches on a tree catches my eye, as does a weirdly shaped lounge suite that’s probably also considered art.
No one here.
The owner of the apar
