She leads me down the long, dark alleyway that heads to the back of her building. Only one light still works, or tries to, as it hopelessly flickers against the night. I’m immediately concerned that this isn’t the best situation for a single woman in this neighborhood. I’m confident she can handle herself, but Los Angeles can be rough. People can get desperate when they’re lost and find themselves forgotten by a system that was always meant to fail them.
We round a corner, and she lets us into a small, dimly lit room with an ancient elevator opening on one wall and a door to the lobby on another. She hits the button, sending a screeching, rickety elevator down to the first floor to greet us. The elevator doesn’t have an actual door, nothing but a rusty metal grate and cage.
“The elevator is some kind of antique from one of the old studios, which should scare the hell out of me,” she says after she sees my hesitation. She pulls back the grate and motions me in. “But really, it’s kind of cool. It makes me think of old classic movies and gives the building some personality. Everyone is afraid of it, so it doesn’t get used much.”
“Hey, so long as it works and isn’t haunted, I’m game.” I tilt my head to the side before she can hit the floor button. “Do you mind?” I take her hand, place it on the grating, and pull out my camera. I quickly adjust the settings and start taking pictures while she watches me.
“Sorry, it’s a photographer thing. It looks too damn cool to pass up.”
“Yeah, but you ruined it with my hand.”
I’ve never been so glad I have my digital camera. I flip the screen over and pull up the last few shots as we let the elevator slide shut and start its journey up.
“Your hand is beautiful, and the way your rings bring in the extra contrast, it’s perfect. So much at odds with one another.”
“What do you mean?”
“Okay, so the metal grate is cool looking on its own, but it’s old, rusted, and dull. Your rings are shiny and smooth—a juxtaposition of textures. The picture could be fine like that, but your hand,” I take it and rub my thumb along the back, “is beautifully pale and exquisitely soft. It’s a texture you can’t make from manipulated metal.”
“Wow, see, this is why I could never be a classical artist.”
“Eh, it’s just words. At the risk of you kicking my ass onto the street, I think I like this one the most.” I hand her the camera, a dangerous move since she could delete the picture before I can stop her. The elevator grate with her hand is in the foreground and out of focus, framing her face while she watches me. Her eyes are dazzling, and the old, yellowed light gives her a spellbinding Old Hollywood vibe. She stares down at the screen in surprise.
“That’s, uhm, the best picture anyone’s ever taken of me, and I had no clue you were taking it. It looks…” she fumbles for words. “Creepy? But in a cool way. I didn’t know you could shoot digitally in black and white. I thought that was something you did in Photoshop or Lightroom later.”
“Monochrome settings. Not all cameras have it, but there’s really nothing like shooting in black and white. Okay, 8mm might be a little bit more fun. No, a lot more fun.”
“You listen to vinyl records, too. Don’t you?”
“Guilty. Does that make me a hipster millennial, old soul, or just someone who’s mentally older than they physically are?”
She holds the camera up, takes a picture of me, and looks down at the screen. She’s smiling as she hands it back, and the air thins as her fingers slide over mine and up my arm.
“I think they’re calling us Elder Millennials now. I dunno.” She reaches up and plays with the ends of my hair at the back of my neck. My knees are weak, and I’m not sure my heart can beat any faster. “If you grow the hair out a bit more and maybe a little more beard, I think you’d make an excellent hipster. I bet you’d be even hotter with longer hair.”
I smile like an idiot and realize that, like her, I don’t know how to take a compliment—I never have. The elevator stopped a while ago, and she finally turns around and pulls the grates open again, the loud screech pulling me from my daydream. She leads me down the hall and to her door, and I wonder if she can hear my heart or if it’s only me.
She opens the door and drops her bag on a nearby couch. “So, this is my place. The bathroom is straight through there; no snooping in the medicine cabinet. The kitchen is over there, but it’s probably pathetically empty unless there are such things as grocery fairies.” She pulls my jacket off and her baggy sweater, tossing them both over the back of the couch. I’m trying not to stare at the tight tank top that’s hugging her body the way I want to.
“I’ve got more edibles or there are a couple of joints in the box over there by the tv if you want. I know I work better that way.” She turns to me; I can see her chest rising and falling nervously as she steps toward me. “How about we order something for dinner? My fridge is kind of empty.”
“Yeah. Yeah, that’s a great—” I jump when someone bangs loudly on the door and jiggles the handle, trying to get in. I look at Lexi with an eyebrow raised, and I can feel the panic coming off her. She knows who this is, and so do I. She told her mother she’d be home tonight.
“Would it be better if I hung from my fingertips by the fire escape or something?”
“I’m so sorry. Uhm, let me try to get her to go away. She probably watched us come in, so hiding wouldn’t do much except make her tear the place apart looking for you. I’m sorry for anything she says. She’s…”
“Hey, it’s alright.” I offer her a smile as I lean against a wall, preparing for the oncoming storm. I want to stand with her. I want to hold her and tell her we can get through this together, whatever happens. I squeeze her hand gently. “Only whatyousay matters to me, Angel. Not her.”
I see the slightest twitch at the corner of her mouth at the name. She hasn’t asked me to stop using it, so I haven’t. She walks over to the door and timidly places a hand on the deadbolt. The Lexi I’d come to know over the day is gone, replaced yet again by a scared child who’s afraid to open her door to a monster she knows all too well. Home is not her safe space, which explains why she works so much.
She barely gets the door unlocked, and she’s pushed backward as the woman who could only be her mother comes in like a locomotive. She’s taller than Lexi and thin as a rail. She looks like she’s stepped out of some conservative magazine from the 50s, her blonde hair pinned up neatly and a buttoned-up neckline under the sweater.
“Alexis, how do you expect me to get in when you’ve locked the deadbolt? I’ve brought the?—”
I keep still, wondering if she’s realized I’m here.
“I thought we talked about this, Alexis. You can’t be wearing these kinds of things out in public, and your hair is a mess.” She pulls at the hem of Lexi’s shirt like she’s a child. “This style isn’t doing anything to help hide your figure, dear; it’s far too tight on you. Did you get those pills I sent over? I can’t believe you really go to your job like this. Come on, I want to go through your closet and get rid of these things. I left you new clothes the other day, and you still wear clothes that make you look like a?—”
