I hope not, Ava.
I’ve never been so frantically unhappy!
Corridors so narrow that my shoulders touched
both walls as I walked down, my bedroom had no
window – a sort of breeze block coffin, just bigger than a
double bed.
No window!
Just a plastic door onto a small communal courtyard,
concrete too,
not much out there, except a washing line,
an old fridge drawer with someone’s strawberry plants.
The basement flat next door to mine was
occupied by women – a brothel! – I was told by a
particularly sour man upstairs.
I doubt it’s true. And anyway
what does it matter, Ava, they were sweet and quiet,
they had these kids there, twins I think – a boy and girl,
what – three years old? – who’d play outside my door.
See, in the summer I would have to keep it open or I’d
bake,
and so I’d have a curtain drawn across,
at this time I was going out a lot,
nocturnal,
summer’s days I’d nap, the ceiling creaking
with the heavy shuffle of that sour man upstairs,
the fabric of my curtain gently billowing in the
dusty breeze
and often I’d be woken by a scrabbling
sound and see four tiny arms reach underneath the
curtain,
feel around for anything on my floor,
and if there was an object, they would take it –
a make-up brush,
a pair of plastic sunglasses,
a tangerine,
a mug,
a postcard from my aunt,
countless bobby pins
and hairbands…
I never stopped them.
