Flat 34
By: Martha Lane
There’s a woman who lives in my block. She uses the same lift as me. The one on the left with the call button that sticks.
I want to tell her she’s beautiful.
She’s a bit older than me, she has a baby. Though that doesn’t mean much in this town. She pushes the baby, almost a child, in a too-small buggy. She has to hunch slightly, her top lifting up, exposing her hips and the slight rise of her spine. The child’s cheeks wobble as she rattles it over the chipped tiled floors.
I watch her. Round corners of walls, caught in the corner of my eye. At the till in the corner shop she buys a bottle of something clear and sliced white bread, sometimes a tub of sludge, impossibly yellow, to spread. Her hair is swept up in a band, flashing me hooped earrings and a whisper of neck.
I want to tell her she’s beautiful.
In the evenings, we eat food off our laps on plates that came with the flat. It’s hot but doesn’t taste of much. My parents ask about Lee. Such a nice boy, they say. I push my fork into an already full mouth. I once held open a door for her and noticed the shopping in her bag. Strained plastic so stretched the white had turned clear. Great leaves of green erupted from her clenched hand. A haze of smoke from the vape pen she carries, swallowed us. For a moment we were breathing the same air.
I almost told her she was beautiful.
In the evenings we crowd round the telly, two birds not quite flown the nest and two old doves desperate for space but unsure what they’d do with it. We discuss the day, discuss the weather. We never discuss the future, never discuss the past. My ears tingle at the infrequent mention of the woman from flat 34.
She lives with a woman you know? Not like that, they don’t think. She has that baby after all.
Mum and Dad never say outright that they don’t think it’s right, but they make sure to ask about Lee after any talk of flat 34. A hop up to solid ground, where their feet will feel steady.
Lee is fine, I say.
I don’t want to tell Lee he is beautiful. But I do, every evening, I do. While I stare at the back of his head and imagine his hair in a band.