At the hawker centre, he orders his fried rice and takes a seat next to the stall while it is prepared. The old man with the long combover (on one side of his head) walks past, in his usual brown pants and striped shirt, plastic bag in hand, smacking his head and muttering to himself as always.
He's hungry and cannot wait to go home and dig in; the food in his hand smells divine. He sees the lift door closing so he dashes to catch it. A wave of his hands between the closing doors does the trick. The two in the car - a Chinese lady in high heels and thick make-up and an Indian lady in crutches, make room for him. He walks in and pushes 12. 3 and 9 are also lit. At 3, he steps out to give the lady in heels more room to exit. Before he re-enters the car, his attention is caught by a single bed in the lift lobby. It has pink sheets, a brown blanket and blue pillow-cases. The lady in crutches looks at him impatiently so he shuffles back in apologetically.
At 9 he holds the door open for her to exit comfortably. At 12 he exits, goes into his apartment and waits for his wife to return. Once she is back, they eat hurriedly, grumble about work and turn in at 11.