217 Babel Street | Apartment 15
“Hi Jeff. It's Alison."
"Hiya."
"I'm at 217."
"Great."
"I'm printing off as we speak. . ."
"Do you have a pen. . . ? The caretaker's in 1. The taxi driver is in 7, the married couple are in 8 -"
"The unmarried couple."
"Right. The unmarried couple. I'll send you the map."
"Another thing. You interested in writing a story for a Smiths collection? This editor has just emailed -"
"Ahhh, The Smiths. . ."
The speckled snow on the screen turned to dark, stuttering lines, and the world went quiet. Julietta turned the TV to the window. She wiggled the cord. She pulled a cable out and stuck it back in. The snow returned. The man with the northern accent was talking, but his voice was muffled now.
"'There's more to life than books, you know.
But not much more.
There's more to life than books -'"
A poem? A song? She slapped the set with the flat of her hand but nothing. It was lost to her. So were they, whoever they were. Strangers somewhere in the building? What was it with her telly? Satellite dish confusion or some tangled ley-line? She had the urge to run into the corridor, to bump into someone, anyone, to touch a sleeve, to smell fresh air coming off a coat, to join in someone's conversation in the lift. Would Tom never come? Would Alan never return to her? She switched off the telly and reached for her bag. A new paperback. It would have to do.