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Let’s start with introductions:
Author: What is your name?
(This is where you say your name in your head or perhaps aloud and laugh at yourself, and I pretend to hear you.)
Author: Ah yes, we’re expecting you.
(I think I did quite well with my generalized statement.)
Author: Room 206
(206 because it was a singular apartment away from my unit, and I have always been curious about the tenants and their belongings but I chose it mostly because it sounds nice to say out loud.)
You: Of course
(That was me forcing you to say something that allows me to continue with my already exhausted plot device, and if you are anything like myself you likely said something completely different and have forced yourself to continue reading in the hopes that I will become less annoying by the next page.)
You:
In room 206 there are many doors. You don’t get to select which door, so it’s pointless for me to describe them to you; suffice to say it is too many doors for such a small singular room. The concierge, who has rudely entered in after you, ushers you into it. He doesn’t really seem to know where he’s going but quite anxious to get there. He’s graying and looks at a wrist watch that is far out of line with the rest of his outfit; it catches your eye. But that’s all it is, a wrist watch on a man with poor taste. He nearly ushers you right into a door. The one that stands mostly centrally in the room aside from the one you have entered. You stop short, he does not, and you watch that wrist watch tap the freestanding frame. The door disintegrates.
The horror on his features is plain, and like any solidly logical person you conclude he has either made a grave mistake, or he didn’t know that would happen. You tuck away your own shock to watch him.
“Thistle!”, he yelps out. It seems like he isn’t calling anyone or anything. His expression and voice all seem completely detached from the word; like it just popped into his head and came out his mouth.
You start to wonder if you’ve been kidnapped by a man whose only word has no meaning to him or to you. “I’m very sorry my dear”, he starts “I have a tick disorder you see and that may become quite troublesome to you.” You have no idea what he means. It’s not as though you’re some bigot, and you would never dream of treating someone like they are troublesome because of something out of their control.
This, of course, is before he slaps the next closest door and it disintegrates.
And while you will still tip him that same amount that you have ever tipped (or not tipped) a concierge before, you are beginning to see what he means, by troublesome.
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