66

A few creaks could be heard from the corridor as lazy night crawlers dragged their heavy limbs up the old spiral staircase. The dark wood underneath their feet was close to a century old at least, and it surely lamented each collision of careless thumps, and drunk hands plastered against walls in their plight for stability. The white paint had oxidised and was peeling off slowly like aged nail polish, but it was endearing, and felt like home. Other times, it felt lonely. The front door was an electric blue, but of the boring, washed-out type. It had by some miracle remained impressively unchipped despite years of abuse. Standing tall, as a trusty doorman, it was unaffected by the frost of autumnal wind.

Droning of intercom buzzes filled the apartment with a hum, but the sound was faint, like a microcosmic symphony of automatic beeps (a kind of scientist's music.) Inside the second-floor apartment flat, little bulbs danced around the ceiling in watercolour, firefly, formation. They were a miniature simulation of glowing embers that filled the bedroom with the same orange and pink hues, perfect for the weary who stay awake with the night just a bit longer. The light carried on in to the kitchen, which smelled of tangy lemon dish soap. Last night’s cold curry was still sat cosily by the sink, and tomorrow evening, the plate would have the same sharp taste. A dishwasher freshener had experienced an unfortunate implosion after been left inside during a cycle by accident. Now, the flat had become the incarnation of one big, goddamn relentless, citrus fruit.

A light breeze seeped through the cracks of the living room jalousie, sweeping up the lemon and curry on its way, whirling them around in the small apartment. The radiators burned with intensity, but a midnight coolness stayed atop the bedroom duvet like a protective membrane.

A dusty brown curtain revealed a small bathroom with a light that flickered upon emission before settling. It was humid in there, and looked rather clinical. The dryer screeched out a few notes; the motorised whale noises indicated that it was definitively broken. Yet somehow, the flat still managed to seem inviting. When red wine topped the tables, and couples came home from singing in the rain, the multicolour lights were lit, and the warm showers trickled down backs broken from dancing, running, carrying, living. Now it stands empty again, waiting for life to one day return.