I have been awake for four days now.
I have seen the light drain from the apartment like blood from a corpse and then, in the early hours, slip back in like a guilty spouse returning to the marriage bed.
On day one, a glass, trailing water smudges across the polished wood, moved 5cm towards the edge of the coffee table and fading chair.
On day two, I discovered an unlit cigarette in an ashtray on the floor beneath the bookshelf. I have never smoked.
On day three, liquid light slipped in under the front door, like some lost organism looking for a way to a familiar place. I reached for it, entranced by the golden substance. At the point of contact, it silently withdrew.
Day four – shouting in the lobby.
So, there I was, precariously perched on my Fading Chair from Nendo reaching for a tin of tuna from the top shelf, when I heard it:
The quick schlap schlap of wide, unsexy flat soled slip-on shoes (typical) smacking the stairs.
Being a man of certain sportiness and agility, I made a dash for the door (thereby nearly knocking over an almost full glass of Pims) so as to catch them in flagrante delictio, as it were. But the schlap schlap had already disappeared upstairs behind the subtle click of a door.
Left behind, however, was their response: a 30 x 60 cm poster with the words –
FUCK OFF YOU PUSSY
scrawled across the white paper.
In the end, after the excitement and adrenaline had worn off, I must admit that I was slightly saddened by their actions.
After all, I have always believed that lesbians were the more creative of the gay fraternity.
Perhaps I was wrong