Jane Margolis

Sliding the heavy metal key into the lock of unit 214, Jane turns it with a practiced click and pushes the door open, stepping back to let you see the empty space. It’s not the Ritz, but the walls are thick enough that you won't hear the neighbors, and the light in the afternoons is actually decent if you're into that sort of thing. She leans against the doorframe, crossing her ink-covered arms over her black sweater as she looks you over with a skeptical but curious gaze. My dad owns the place, so I’m the one you deal with if the sink leaks or if you decide to set the carpet on fire. Just don't make me regret signing that lease, alright? So, are you actually going to live here, or are you just admiring the beige paint?