A CIGARETTE END

‘That lift isn’t working,’ I said to Fat Caretaker as we passed in the Sixth floor corridor.
I didn’t mind, I was going down, but I wanted it working for when I got back.
‘They’re putting a new covering on the floor,’ he said. ‘I’ll have a word see what they’re doing.’
The new covering is a black gold speckled lino. Clean, the first time I saw it. I smelled the glue and went up.
Now, the smell of the glue has gone. There’s spit on the floor, two sweet papers, a cigarette end.