CONE

‘That your cone?’ I said to the man in the lift I’d seen as I walked in the block and who’d stopped the lift door fully closing to let me ride up with him.
‘No,’ he said and we both looked at the yellow cone in the middle of the lift floor.
He was carrying a white plastic carrier bag had eight tins of Fosters in it I noticed.
‘Another hot one today.’
‘Isn’t though,’ I said, ‘a scorcher.’
He left the lift early neither of us saying goodbye to the other and the rest of the way up to mine I looked at the cone and wondered how it’d got there.