feet, his hair a much lighter colour than it had seemed a few days earlier.
He took out the cigarette from his mouth and grinned. “You’re early.”
She looked down at the watch even though she knew perfectly well how early she was. It was eleven forty five, fifteen minutes earlier than scheduled. “I guess I am. Is it all right?”
“‘Course it’s all right. Come on in.”
Jessica walked past him and he gently touched her waist to guide her inside. A corridor extended before them, two arches opened on both sides of the entry hall they stood in, the walls as white as the exterior of the building. Music was playing softly in one of the rooms.
...Beethoven...
“How did you know I was outside the door?” She asked still shaking her coat.
“You’re dripping.”
“Excuse me?”
“I was waiting for you. I saw you coming from the window. You’re dripping,” he said pointing at the raindrops falling off her umbrella onto the floor. “Let me get this for you.”
He took the umbrella from her hand and guided her through the arch on their left, a large kitchen with white walls, empty apart from glossy white fitted cupboards and a small fridge underneath an oak worktop where a solitary coffee maker sat. A small stereo played on the floor between a couple of wooden boxes.
...Beethoven... Moonlight Sonata...
“I love Beethoven.” She whispered looking at the stereo.
It reminded her of her grandparents house; warm afternoons spent in the dining room sitting on her grandmother’s arm chair, listening to old records on her old record player; her dry, wrinkled hands, the way she used to take sweets from them and hide them in her pockets so that mother wouldn’t take them away, and her father sitting in a corner with his eyes closed, almost in a trance. Stuart Lynch loved classical music, his face melted in ecstasy whenever he listened to his mother’s records; he relaxed, mellowed. Music was the only thing that got to him, everything else just seemed to bounce off. Jessica had wished many times she could play an instrument, any instrument, something she could use to perform for him only so that he would see her, so that he would see how much she wanted him to be like everybody else. An instrument she would play every time he tried to raise a hand against his mother, something that would stop him, hypnotise the monster inside him. But she couldn’t play. She could only write, and her father didn’t like reading.
Coffee started coming out of the coffee maker as she turned around, the image of her father so vivid in her mind she half expected to see him standing in the room. Instead she found Blaise standing by the sink where the umbrella was now dripping, looking at her smiling, and she smiled back at him trying to take her coat off and get her handbag off her shoulder at the same time.
“I was about to have some coffee. Would you like some?”
“Coffee sounds great.”
A couple of mugs were already set side by side.
“You can hang the coat on the door, if you don’t mind. I forgot to mention that the place is unfurnished, I hope it’s not a problem for you.”
“No problem, no. I’ve got my own furniture.”
“That’s if you decide to take the place. Milk, sugar?”
“Black, thanks. No sugar.”
He handed her a mug and sat on one of the wooden cases by the window looking up at her, waiting for her to do the same, and they sat facing each other, the music loud enough to cover the sound of the rain pouring down outside.
Jessica started sipping her coffee looking around, studying the room, the two windows by the sink, one next to the other, tried to imagine her furniture arranged against these walls. She had never seen a kitchen so colourless before, she found it eerie, bleak.
“Have you lived here long?”
“About three years, I think.”
“Can I ask why you’re moving out?”
He took a sip of coffee. “Are you asking me if there’s something wrong with this place?”
Jessica
He took out the cigarette from his mouth and grinned. “You’re early.”
She looked down at the watch even though she knew perfectly well how early she was. It was eleven forty five, fifteen minutes earlier than scheduled. “I guess I am. Is it all right?”
“‘Course it’s all right. Come on in.”
Jessica walked past him and he gently touched her waist to guide her inside. A corridor extended before them, two arches opened on both sides of the entry hall they stood in, the walls as white as the exterior of the building. Music was playing softly in one of the rooms.
...Beethoven...
“How did you know I was outside the door?” She asked still shaking her coat.
“You’re dripping.”
“Excuse me?”
“I was waiting for you. I saw you coming from the window. You’re dripping,” he said pointing at the raindrops falling off her umbrella onto the floor. “Let me get this for you.”
He took the umbrella from her hand and guided her through the arch on their left, a large kitchen with white walls, empty apart from glossy white fitted cupboards and a small fridge underneath an oak worktop where a solitary coffee maker sat. A small stereo played on the floor between a couple of wooden boxes.
...Beethoven... Moonlight Sonata...
“I love Beethoven.” She whispered looking at the stereo.
It reminded her of her grandparents house; warm afternoons spent in the dining room sitting on her grandmother’s arm chair, listening to old records on her old record player; her dry, wrinkled hands, the way she used to take sweets from them and hide them in her pockets so that mother wouldn’t take them away, and her father sitting in a corner with his eyes closed, almost in a trance. Stuart Lynch loved classical music, his face melted in ecstasy whenever he listened to his mother’s records; he relaxed, mellowed. Music was the only thing that got to him, everything else just seemed to bounce off. Jessica had wished many times she could play an instrument, any instrument, something she could use to perform for him only so that he would see her, so that he would see how much she wanted him to be like everybody else. An instrument she would play every time he tried to raise a hand against his mother, something that would stop him, hypnotise the monster inside him. But she couldn’t play. She could only write, and her father didn’t like reading.
Coffee started coming out of the coffee maker as she turned around, the image of her father so vivid in her mind she half expected to see him standing in the room. Instead she found Blaise standing by the sink where the umbrella was now dripping, looking at her smiling, and she smiled back at him trying to take her coat off and get her handbag off her shoulder at the same time.
“I was about to have some coffee. Would you like some?”
“Coffee sounds great.”
A couple of mugs were already set side by side.
“You can hang the coat on the door, if you don’t mind. I forgot to mention that the place is unfurnished, I hope it’s not a problem for you.”
“No problem, no. I’ve got my own furniture.”
“That’s if you decide to take the place. Milk, sugar?”
“Black, thanks. No sugar.”
He handed her a mug and sat on one of the wooden cases by the window looking up at her, waiting for her to do the same, and they sat facing each other, the music loud enough to cover the sound of the rain pouring down outside.
Jessica started sipping her coffee looking around, studying the room, the two windows by the sink, one next to the other, tried to imagine her furniture arranged against these walls. She had never seen a kitchen so colourless before, she found it eerie, bleak.
“Have you lived here long?”
“About three years, I think.”
“Can I ask why you’re moving out?”
He took a sip of coffee. “Are you asking me if there’s something wrong with this place?”
Jessica
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