I don’t know how it is for other lonely women, but it’s always the oddest creatures that seek me out. Just last night, for instance, I lay in bed sighing. I’d read too much news, eaten too many shepherd’s pies, and was wallowing in misery, as one does.
Then, from behind the wardrobe, came a faint, pitiful whimper. A tiny, mournful little voice.
“Fleas?” I wondered. “There were reports of a proper flea epidemic in London. Don’t tell me they’ve reached Manchester too. Must be exhausted.”
After ten minutes, the “fleas” tired of whimpering and began scratching at the floorboards.
“I’ll get up and wallop you in a minute,” I lied.
No chance of moving after that plate of shepherd’s pie. Heaven forbid I need the loo in the night—I’d have to roll there.
“Please don’t wallop me,” the “fleas” pleaded politely.
“Talking fleas,” I mused through my food haze. “So not fleas, then. Must be the neighbour gone mad. Then again, who hasn’t these days? Fine, I haven’t. Not like I’ve got anything to lose my mind over. Others aren’t so lucky.”
The scratching stopped, and in the dim light, something shaggy and lanky began creeping toward me. My eyesight’s no good, so I squinted, puzzling over three things: Had shepherd’s pie proved the perfect sleeping draught, and was I already dreaming? Were those three ears or three horns? And where on earth had this towering stranger come from? I keep a list of all the tall folk in the building—a hobby of mine.
“Reginald Archibald?” I tried.
“Cold,” the beanpole replied, then promptly smacked his forehead on the chandelier. “Owwwww!”
“Who are you, then?”
“Old Poggle,” the long one giggled, stretching out spindly black limbs toward me. “Boo!”
“I painted my nails black for Hollow’s Eve once. Is that gel or natural?”
“Natural,” he huffed.
“Must be awkward, scratching your nose with claws like that.”
“I don’t—aren’t you scared?”
He leaned in, looming over me, and I saw he did, in fact, have three ears. Two in the usual spots, and one odd lump on his temple—more like a swollen knot.
“I’ve a book due next week and only three pages written. Not to mention the mortgage and the divorce. I’m a grown woman, love. Try terrifying me with your jowls and squint.”
“Our lot says you never screamed, even as a child. Clonked one with a chamber pot. His head still tilts funny.”
“Why’re you here, then?”
“Cosy place you’ve got.”
“That’s the shepherd’s pie. Fancy some?”
“Aye.”
“Fetch it yourself. I’m not moving.”
The long-faced guest vanished like a shadow, returning with tea (poured into my favourite mug, no less!), shepherd’s pie, and sandwiches—clutching an apple between his teeth. A mirror of myself, only hairier.
“Wan’ some?” He held out a plate.
“Eh?”
“I said, want some? Help yourself—I took plenty.”
“Would love to, but I’m fit to burst.”
“Shame. You look like you’ve room—like a python in spectacles.”
“Cheers for that. Lie down, then.”
I shifted over, and we lay there a while. It was nice. The night, the chewing, the scent of pie. What more does one need to soothe mind and body?
“Maybe pop down to Mrs. Higgins on the third floor? She’s elderly—wouldn’t take much.”
“Was there yesterday. She flung a stool at me.”
“Ah. That explains the lump.”
“Aye.”
So we lingered another half-hour, each sighing over private woes.
Might join their lot, I reckon. Must be grand, drifting through strangers’ flats, mooching free meals. Just need something sturdy for the head. A saucepan, perhaps.
