The poem
The smell of ammonia in the entrance hall. The racing bike. The junk mail. The timer switch whose single naked bulb allowed us as far as the first floor. The backs of your legs as you went ahead of me up the stairs.
The landing where we paused for breath and impatient key searching. The locks which would never open quickly enough to let us in. The green of the paintwork we slid down as if we had nowhere else to go.