Lets swap flats, the neighbour said, as if wed already reached an agreement. Why do you need a threebedroom flat? he asked, his tone flat and impatient.
My daughter Grace and I live in a rather charming flat that I inherited from my mother. Its a threebedroom property, each room completely separate with no internal doors linking them.
Theres a spacious hallway, a separate toilet and bathroom, and a modest kitchen that opens onto a surprisingly large balcony. Each of us occupies our own bedroom, and we share a generous living room. Were perfectly happy no plans to move any time soon.
Then, on a drizzly afternoon on Oak Street, the neighbour, Mr. Thompson, stepped out of his car and approached me as if wed already signed a deal. He cut straight to the point.
Surely youre still living with Grace, arent you? Why dont you move into my flat and I move into yours? I have two rooms thatll be more than enough for you. Why bother with a threebedroom flat? Think about it. Two rooms are sufficient for two people. And dont worry about space theres plenty! Weve been hunting for a bigger place for ages, but the markets been dreadful. Your flat is exactly what we need, and well pay extra, I assure you.
I listened to Mr. Thompson with a level of focus that might have seemed absurdly eager. I interrupted him the moment he began to wax lyrical about how wed get along famously. I even wondered whether hed already decided everything for Grace and me, expecting me to simply move into his tiny flat. It sounded almost promising.
I think youre joking, I shot back, my voice tightening. And if youre serious, why on earth would you think wed want to downsize? Do you really believe Id abandon my spacious flat for a place that feels more like a tin box? If I ever considered swapping my threebedroom flat, it wouldnt be for something like that. And what do you mean enough for two? I have no intention of swapping.
Mr. Thompson muttered something about wanting only the best for everyone, that we should each live in the others place, that we didnt know what was good for us.
We still live in our flat. Mr. Thompson and his family no longer wave when they pass us on the street. Apparently my refusal struck a nerve, leaving a lingering tension that hangs over the neighbourhood like the drizzle outside.
