Dear Reader,
I have a story for you, one I have been working on for the past few months. I wanted to explore how departures and arrivals can show up. For your convenience (and to build some tension), I have chopped the story into smaller parts.
Baby, a short story
When I found this cheap apartment last fall, the landlord, relieved to find a renter during the off-season, half-heartedly offered to repaint the place, but I told him to leave it. The apartment was exactly what I needed, a hideout. The living room and the tiny kitchen looked like gray rain clouds had shifted into their walls, staining them haphazardly. And if you thought entering into the sudden gloom of the apartment was comforting, wait till you stumbled into the womb of the dark bedroom. I’ve lost track of the number of days I lay on this bed and watched through the window as brown maple leaves drifted down and were carried away by the small creek that ran behind the shabby building. I imagined the water receiving, and softening, leaf after brittle leaf, taking the same care with each one, and felt soothed.
I wonder how the previous renters ever found the strength to leave.
My phone rang loudly, but I didn't pick it up. I knew it was Layla. I’d given in and said I would go to the job fair with her, though even as I said yes last week, I wondered how I would make it out the door. I should be looking for a job. I know I should. But... I don’t let myself worry about Layla. She’ll find someone else to go with her. I will stay here, my eyes closed, the sheets drawn tightly over my head and ignore how, lately, my bedroom’s walls have begun to press down on my body.
I heard a thud from the apartment above and I quickly pushed the sheets away, eyes trained upwards. So, he was home. I was immediately giddy with excitement. I waited for his footsteps to cross the bedroom and walk to the small kitchen. What if he runs out of coffee again? Would he knock on my door once more? When I opened the door the first time, I could tell he knew he was very attractive. It was there in how he didn’t ask for my name or how long I’d lived there. He didn’t even ask to borrow coffee, just raised his eyebrows and waved a canister with the word ‘coffee’ printed on it. He looked like he could be a writer, dark shadows under his eyes from tending bar until late in the evenings and working on his novel during the day. After he left, and for the first time in weeks, I made it as far as the convenience store. I don’t drink coffee, but I thought it might be useful to have some at home.
Please let me know what you think is going to happen. I’ll have the second part up next week.
The leaves being softened by the water is a powerful image.
Gorgeous build. And the quiet, gray-on-gray scene of you lying in bed watching leaves fall-—a perfect canvas to begin your story.