He flicks his cigarette as he leans out over his balcony.
The ash is quickly whisked away on the high winds that flow around his apartment up here. Jetstream. Most three storey buildings aren’t tall enough to make the average person nauseous or want to vomit.
After a hard pull he lets his head hang limply, forming a large furrow between his shoulder blades, he looks down.
The 856-metre fall would almost certainly be fatal if the balustrade upon which he was leaning suddenly ceased existing. He doesn’t like to think of the floor that way though. The distance is much easier to wrap your head around if you think of it as spitting distance.
A tongue swirling around his mouth helps to gather together a sizeable wad of spittle. He lets the spit-wad fall from between his lips.
Notoriously used as a saying to infer closeness, spitting distance can also be applied to the distance between the ground and our hero’s apartment, the difference between which, is a mighty 856 metres. Those metres are all downward metres though. This seems to make things easier.
Gently alighting his palm on his forehead, he applies pressure to hold in his unease.
Why would one live at the top of a radio tower? Beats me. It took him four painful months to come up with the spitting distance trick. Fortunately it had at least made life up in the clouds easier to grapple with, but things were still far from enjoyable.
He turns around and begins to walk back to the apartment interior.
A sudden swaying makes him drop to the floor; shag carpet pressed firmly against his left cheek. That was another ‘perk’ of living in such a tall structure. The place fucking swayed all over the place on occasion. The shag carpets were his most recent attempt at a means to handle this unfortunate state of things in his radio top tower apartment.
Brick and concrete aren’t supposed to move like that.