A conversation in a quiet place (fiction)

  

It took you a long time to write that…

I found it difficult.

This is mean and I’m not trying to make you laugh but; I could say the same about you but I’m not complaining.

Not that mean, I’ve heard worse. Also, on what basis could you complain?

Fair. Do you need anything?

No, I think I’ll be fine. I didn’t go to work last week so I’m preemptively stressing for next week.

You have lots of time to watch and read – you’ll be good.

I’m already reading a lot.

How was that?

Fine. Just spoke about work of course, that’s all I can talk about.

You didn’t write anything?

No…

I feel uneasy, kind of greasy.

In what way? In your dress?

It’s probably just the food.

Definitely the food.

Look at that…

Looking out the window

They watch from the second floor of a pale blue two-storey building. Below a club blows smoke out onto the pavement. Beside it, a parking lot, its boom gate and companion security booth, with windows blacked out. A greyhound is muzzled and tied to the parking lot fence. On the other side of the club is a corner shop with an electric man whose robotic movements purr as his electric arm slowly waves, ushering customers inside.

Backs carry themselves out, hunched like proverbial dogs, crawling, anticipating the hunt. Niceties are exchanged by a man with a distinct scar on his hand and a woman in a nurse’s outfit. She pairs this dubious uniform with white fishnet tights and creamy kitten heels. Her hair is set enough to be a helmet. In completion: her nails are manicured, eyes shadowed purple, light brown lip gloss with gum between her teeth. They can tell she is speaking like a lost child. He decides to hold her waist, tightly. The way he laughs at nothing is noticeable. He keeps pointing and laughing. The woman walks with a limp. 

An obstacle course of old books, broken TVs, used coffee cups, roughed up soft toys, cocktail napkins and garbage bags line the rest of the pavement along the street.

On the wall of the corner shop seen from above beholds bold graffiti: “Gd can I fley.”

That’s pretty poor spelling even for graffiti.

You mean mural art. But I agree.

The graffiti, which wraps around the other side of the wall, reads in full: “Wee tryed. She saed keepe out, but I follow. I saed have Mercy ain Mee. Gd can I fley.”

It’s pretty tacky.

Only if you don’t understand it; people say similar things about my tattoo. But they don’t understand. I swear people ask me about it daily, I answer like I’m giving a pill to a sick dog, pulling open its jaws, you have to do it daily.

Oh I didn’t know you had a tattoo…

…Yep

…Look at that —

 

What? The walk or the feet?

Both. I used to know someone who was pigeon-footed.

My mother used to say that pigeon-footed people were backwards. Whatever that meant.

It’s about the arch. It’s like backs: they articulate things. Like diacritics or something.

It gets hot

The entire second storey is one room. This room is clear, not another in the place. Lame, heeled footsteps fell quiet a while ago. An absolute quiet. A naked lightbulb sways slightly, in the cool draft coming from the stairs. Which lead down. Things are beginning to fall now. Stuff is falling from the ceiling. Sporadically disturbing the silence. A film-like dust covers the window, looking outside is no longer possible. The hot sun obscured. The shimmery curtains still drip down the window. Limp and tasteless. It becomes hotter than before, especially when it all is breaking up. Things begin to settle when the first bout of dust seeps away. Down the stairs, out the window. But neither of them notice.

Were you here yesterday too?

Yes. Where were you?

I was downstairs, down a level. 

Was it cooler down there? I’m sweating.

Fuck I’m too hot in this coat. My hair is sticking to my forehead. 

Exhaustion is exhausting. 

At least there’s not much movement in here.

That’s how I like it.

Inside, again

Maybe they can see, maybe they’re pretending not to notice. Pretending nothing is real. Is it possible to not notice? It’s going everywhere now. They carry on, as they were, in their conversation. Does one find it harder to notice things if in the company of another? Can a conversation be that utopic? Utterly absorbed in judging and feeling to themselves. Trickles of it now. Fibres fly through the air, tremble then settle. If they looked up, or down, they’d probably notice the fibres in their laps, on their shoulders and down their backs. It’s all coming down in a stream. Out through cracks which are becoming longer and longer. Tracing their own conversation all along the length of the room. And down the walls. Never getting wider? Do they notice that irregularity? 

I feel like a hand right now.

What?

I feel like a hand. 

Ok, but what does that mean?

Like, I feel like my body is my body but my mind is a hand. It touches, it doesn’t think. And, I mean, I am my mind…I guess.

Are you trying to be annoying?

Fuck off. 

A 

The greyhound barks in the near distance. The coat that wasn't taken off, despite the heat, is surely ruined with specks of plaster that will never get out. A dappled shadow. A head full of dandruff? The ceiling is painted a lurid crimson shade. A lovely pattern pasted on it. They don’t notice that it’s a shame it’s all on the floor now. Oblivious.  

Oh my God.

Um… You ok?

You sound like a really serious baby. Um, ah um and arhm. Ha ha ha 

…

Did you see that on the ground?

No.

It was, like, so beautiful.