August 17, 2011

            I met the boy from the fifth floor on weekends. None of us felt like going out on a weekday, but weekends were fine. We took trips in the elevator. We brought cards and sheets of paper with a pen in the elevator, sat on the floor, and pressed number 28, the top floor. We played a little cards, and when we reached the top floor, we pressed 0, the basement. It was a little scary to have the elevator doors open on you in the basement, but we endured it as a kind of courage building training. We started writing on the sheets as we were playing cards: jotting down something interesting the other had done while coming up with his next move, for example picking his nose with his ring finger. That’s a really hard thing to do, but I found out later that it was a habit of my friend’s. Oh, I haven’t introduced him: his name is Lilitt, with double t, I know, it’s like what the fuck. It’s a considerably easy name after you say it for a couple of days. Your tongue gets used to touching the roof of the mouth so much in a few seconds, and there is a sweet aftertaste. My mom said it was a girl’s name, but I think she is just ignorant to today’s trends.

            Lilitt and I started sharing the notes we had written about each other and each commented on the other’s notes in written text, of course. The we created a new game. We did create it together, I don’t know how it so happens that we had two matching ideas at the same time. So, what we did was that we came up with a character, described everything we could think of about him, and put him in a story. Five sentences, then the other continued and wrote his own five sentences. I will be so nice as to share with you some of the characters that lived inside Lilitt’s head and inside mine too. This all happened on the floor of the elevator while it went up and down, up and down, probably hating us for not letting it rest and trying to send us in the ditch, but, at least for the time being, without success.