The smell of a burning cigarette seeps up through the floor of my apartment, through the crack in the window by the dining table. It’s a comforting smell, and I know who’s smoking: the woman who lives below runs a daycare out of her apartment and before the kids arrive she smokes inside in the mornings, setting off the fire alarm almost daily. It’s not just her cigarettes though—she burns a lot when she cooks, I can smell that too, the scent of burnt toast, up through the floor of my kitchen.
She’s friendly enough. You can tell she’s smart; it’s in the eyes; but she might have lost it a bit with age. Her skinny frame shuffles in and out of the building, always appearing in various states of disarray, dragging her feet, dragging a heavy bag of trash as it leaks all the way, pulling the pack of smokes from her little pink bag, nodding hello. When I pass our side of the building I notice her windows are stuffed to the brim with pink and yellow fabrics and bulky piece of furniture. No sunlight, no fresh air gets in or out of that place. Except through her ceiling. (My floor.)
I can tell she likes to shop. We’re alike: she likes tchotchkes and trinkets and jewelry, using the money she makes from her underground operation to buy colorful little bags, new clothes she finds on Fulton Mall, the flip flops and sandals she shuffles around in—all year—and toys for the kiddos. She’s sweet. They like her.
As soon as my cat wakes me up in the morning as early as five I can smell it; whatever she’s cooking—stews and broths and beans, slow-cooked meats and onions with spices and herbs and garlic. Makes me hungry. Then the smell of burning and the inevitable fire alarm. No kids today, I can tell. I’m just glad she’s there, keeping me company with her cigarette and its smoke.