Klempner
Without warning, the light flicks from dim to bright, and grunting, I raise a hand to shield my eyes for a few seconds. By the time I'm blinking back to normality, the click-click of stiletto heels is drawing close.
She has her usual bag, stuffed with God-knows-what, and as usual, colour-co-ordinated to her outfit. "Good afternoon, Larry. How are you?"
She's in red today; very gaudy, very Latin. The dress fits too tightly and the lipstick is too bright for her. Although that might not show on the casual glance.
"Why do you wear sunglasses underground?"
"It's a fashion statement." Her voice is airy.
I don't bother to get up. Sitting with my knees up to relieve the strain on my fettered ankle, hands loosely clasped around my legs, I do shift a little, moving my weight from one side to the other. I've almost ceased to notice the cold striking up from the concrete, but it still rubs, being in contact with the unyielding surface all the time.