Two hours later, the sound of the elevator starting to move woke me up. Then it jerked to a stop on the sixth floor and someone opened the door. I'd seen the man before. He seemed to know me too, though he didn't look happy to see me.

"Don't you know you're not supposed to bring/take your bike in the elevator?"

Assuming he was some neighbor, I didn't want to start an argument. I took the bike out of the elevator and walked up the stairs with her on my shoulders, out of breath and cursing, until I finally got home. I leaned her against the worn wall and clumsily took off my wet shirt and tossed it in a corner. Now she looked like the silent, lifeless thing she had always been: cold and distant, as if nothing had happened between us. I lay down on the floor. A mixture of resentment and disappointment settled in me. Nothing had gone the way I'd imagined. It almost never does.

"And the towels?

I'm soaked to the brakes".