217 Babel Street | Apartment 8
He opened the tin, grabbed a spoon and started devouring the mess. "Fuck you," he squelched through a mouthful of mushy peas.
An ice cream van pulled up on the street below and struck up its cheerful, rancid tune. He slammed the kitchen window shut. Ice cream? It was November, for Christ's sake. The crystals she had hung on threads from the window frame spun and twisted. Coloured light shattered on the walls.
"I'll ring the caretaker, James, if you don't - Viv What's-her-name. I'll explain you think I'm having it off with a salesman in a lamp showroom on the high street, and that's why you're behaving like someone on day-release. She'll write it down in that tatty ledger of hers, then she'll open -"
"I've seen you, Emma."
"S.A.D. My GP said, get a lamp."
"You have to order those fucking things! From websites. . . or pharmaceutical companies. You don't pop into a lamp showroom day after day. You don't seek advice from a twenty-year-old Nigerian sales clerk who happens to work as a life model."
"How do you know he -"
"You're at it, aren't you? In the stockroom."
"I like the lights. I just -" she sighed "- like all the light." She picked up a rubber band off the worktop and tied her hair in a tight, painful knot. "Unlock the door, James." He put down his tin and spoon. He walked from room to room. She heard him lowering blinds, drawing curtains and turning off lights.