Hello, neighbour
Photography David Jorre
With nothing but a sonorous voice to fuel her imagination, a writer fantasizes about her next-door neighbour
Hello, neighbour.
Your rationality carries through thick air, over my back fence as you pace the garden talking sense into someone desperate. You interrupt my scrolling. A calm, measured manner with movie-star timbre. Resonance through the six-foot tangle of vines.
Interest piqued, my shameless mind conjures up visuals to match. A silhouette of Atticus Finch with dark mop and frames. (He’s one of the good guys, right?) Implied authority. You’re probably important.
I bet you have sleepless nights, adult ones where you shoulder responsibility. My own nocturnal restlessness is pitiable in comparison – self-induced by excessive toxins or heavy menstruation; solvable with pills and a hot water bottle. How your words are warm.
A quick search: litigator. Representation to the most desperate in their darkest hour. You pace towards me, away from me. Come back, move away. Back and forth. Secret audience. Please keep talking.
Making your turn near to our dividing fence, your declarations cut through the hum of domesticated landscapes. Lush susurration; bees brushing stamen.
Your offspring fumbles with “Clair de Lune” on the keys and London thrums even in lockdown. A topless young woman quietly pilfers your words for her fantasies while you carefully talk someone off a ledge.
Nosy. Standing on my tippy toes, I raise a compact mirror to peer into your kingdom. The back of your head walks away from me, job done. You move inside, never giving the game away.
The mirror slips and angles to show a young man at the top floor opposite looking directly to me. My neighbour’s neighbour. He doesn’t speak, just smiles into my reflection.
Hello, neighbour.
