Mitchell had forgotten just how much of a pain moving could be.

Sure, most people nowadays didn't have much trouble with it - a combination of competitive moving companies and condominium staff eager to please generally made the process pretty easy if you could pay for it - but due to certain... [i]scheduling[/i] issues, Mitchell ended up doing most of the actual moving himself. 

It certainly hadn't been his first time, and it wouldn't be his last, but it never ceased to amaze him just how much [i]stuff[/i] he managed to accumulate. It used to amaze him that a person's entire life could be packed away in boxes - the novelty had since worn off, and what once had been an interesting chance to catalogue his worldly possessions had become an enormous chore. 

But at last, the task was done: the last box unpacked, the last paperwork signed, and probably the last time speaking to the daytime lobby staff. Mitchell was relieved to rid himself of the insufferable clutter that moving can bring, and was happy to finally settle down in his new armchair and read. Tonight's selection was, "The Picture of Dorian Gray". 

Poring through the familiar words of Oscar Wilde, the stresses of moving began to melt away. The book had been with him for ages, its pages yellowed with age, edges curled from years of use. It was an antique - a copy from the first batch ever printed - and though Wilde could drone on, the story between the ramblings had always spoken to Mitchell. Many times he'd envied the life which Dorian led at first: eternal youth and beauty, and nothing but a covered canvas to hold him accountable for the gruesome deeds forever recorded on its face. He sighed; if only guilt were so easy to hide. 

A faint squeal took him out of his reverie; a soft tap on his window made him look up. There, outside his twenty-sixth story window, was a man. A young, muscular man, clad in a safety harness and pressing a board to the outside of the window. 

'HELLO MY NAME IS TY FROM VERTICAL SERVICES. IS THIS A BAD TIME TO SERVICE YOUR WINDOWS?'

Mitchell cocked an eyebrow. Never before had he actually seen a window washer, for every other home he'd lived in had either been a private estate or had daytime washers. 

He glanced at his watch - 3:15am. Looking back to the window washer, Mitchell noticed that he looked pained. No, not pained... worried maybe? Placing his book on the end table beside him, Mitchell did his best to put on a reassuring face and waved his hand in a "carry on" motion.