By Katie Thorn

Photo by Ricardo Gomez Angel on Unsplash

I crack open one of the shutters and peer out into the empty street. The line hangs between our balconies, swaying gently in the pre-dawn breeze. Good. Terese must still be sleeping. She can stay that way. 

Closing the shutters tight so no light creeps out, I put the kettle on and check the washing machine. I know it will sing when it’s done washing - Maximilien bought me the latest model - but I’m in a hurry. I can’t afford to be late by a minute. Things to do! I grab my favorite teacup from the shelf and tug the tin of tea leaves out of the cabinet, pushing aside partial bars of unsweetened chocolate and bottles of expired spices. When was the last time I baked with those?

The machine rumbles to a stop and begins its tinny song. I limp across the room and pry open the lid, lifting the wet clothes out and dropping them into my basket. It takes me a full minute to get the basket onto my hip, and then I drop it again when the teakettle whistles. I leave the laundry in puddles on the floor and return to the stove, moving the kettle off the heat. I don’t have time to steep my tea now. 

I’m not much for hands and knees, but I get onto the floor, shuffling the soggy towels and socks into my basket. I lean my hands on the edge and use it to push myself upright, gasping for breath and groaning as my back stiffens and complains. At least I managed this time; I’ve had to call Max before to come over and get me off the floor. He’s a good boy, but I can tell he worries about me. I worry about him, too, at his age with no wife or children. What will a roommate do for you when you get to old age?

Hefting the basket back up, I shuffle to the window and peek out again. Nothing. I throw open my shutters, triumphant, drop the laundry basket onto the balcony table, and snatch up a clothespin. The sun is making its way into the sky as I clip my soggy towels onto the line. 

Terese opens her shutters, basket on her hip. I smile at her and wave. “Good morning, Terese,” I call. “I was beginning to worry about you. I thought perhaps you’d fallen and couldn’t get up.” She slams the shutters closed again, and I return my focus to the laundry, grinning to myself. Better luck next time, Terese. 

I crack open the shutters and peer out into the empty street. The sun is still sleeping, and I know my neighbor will be, too- Glowing white shirts and tea towels flutter in the breeze, swaying on the line. Terese stands on her balcony, arms crossed. Wide awake. 

Pushing the shutter further, I wave and say, “Good morning, Terese. You’re up early. Exciting plans today? Perhaps you’re going to visit your son? How much longer is Pietro in Fresnes again? The sentence was, what, six years?” 

Terese says nothing, just grabs her basket, and stomps back into her apartment. 

Speaking of sons, perhaps I’ll go visit mine this afternoon. It’s time to start talking about the future. Mine, and his.