I rode the elevator up three floors with a mosquito, which seemed unfair. I actually needed the lift. She was just in the right place at the right time. I was pack-muling grocery bags and a drum of cat litter. The mosquito didn’t have any grocery bags.

After a nine-hour shift my blood was barely circulating, but her workday was just getting started. She spent the whole trip energetically practicing her moves in the mirror like a stripper.

One floor up, the elevator doors parted to reveal my yoga neighbor, with capris the color of a virgin blushing. Her girlfriend lived on my floor so we rode together a lot. As the elevator resumed, she and I both watched the freeloading mosquito.

I always marveled that my neighbor had an entire salary for just one person. My teenage food-hoovers would demolish every ounce of sustenance I brought them tonight, and then I’d have to collect the leafy scalps of strawberries that missed the trash. 

My yoga neighbor probably had pillow shams. She probably didn’t hold her breath at the ATM. 

The elevator’s red two blinked on. I listened to the mosquito revving up for a long shift and realized that, like me, she’d take home everything she earned today to her kids. 

I felt a strange solidarity. When the door opened, my yoga neighbor stepped out and I moved aside for a winged single mother with a family to take care of.