underparasols:

Neighbors

The girl occupying the upstairs flat is celebrating her birthday alone.  

She is twenty-five. I know, because the number glows through the dirt on her living room window. Yesterday it was a partridge, and the day before that, a rabbit. But it did not survive the condensation.

The floor separating us is thin, so thin I can hear her pacing. Footfalls hard as mountain rocks collapsing on dry ground. A minute ago she sent a war down the telephone line that shook the building and set off car alarms, to a painter who discarded her.

The day is aging rapidly, and still no sign of her friends. Last year they brought laughter and balloons and wine. Arms that sprang open like pop-up books. 

I had been composing that afternoon and was preparing to take a nap when I heard them—out-of-town butterflies in winter. I listened with my back to the wall and pretended I knew nothing of loneliness.

Will the night be kind to her if no one shows? Will it offer its stars and fasten them to her ears like diamonds? Will it demand coyotes wear tuxedos and ask her to dance? In the meantime, I will keep watch. I will leave my light on. Maybe invite her down for pie and give her the handkerchief I started embroidering the first time I heard her weep.

Copyright © 2011 Bianca Stewart


RECORDING

Phoebe Bishop-Wright
(sore-thumbelina.tumblr.com)


MUSIC

Love So Alike
by Anne Dudley