She said interesting. Interesting, the way she always said it when she knew nothing about it, but could sense the possibility of importance beneath those words. Something she considered she might sometimes look into, but probably won’t. Trust in the law of serendipity to bring it back, if it needs to be part of her thoughts. Part of the story bag she’d pull stuff out of, over and over, to be able to contribute to the conversation. Apear almost afable to the ethraled audience. And on occasion, she would like to do that. On others, she mainly wanted to fall back. Head strangely devoid of thoughts. No matter anyway. Most conversations are a battlefield for earspace. She’d say sth. They’d say something and at the end, you count who got more points. Was it a war(d) game? Like a football game calculating the time of posession of the ball. It turned out you could simply listen. Not say that much and the conversation still carries on. She’d wonder if that makes her seem different. And if it did, did it actually matter?
Her best friend, a beautiful Spanish stud would constantly drive her mad. ‘I feel like you’re taking advantage of me!’ and ‘You just don’t give a fuck‘ she’d think. But then after a while, she’d accept all of that. And more so love him, strangely for the way he is. ‘You know! It’s Rafa…’ I’m not surprised. That came on the night she came back to London after half a year. M got to the house, with her big red suitcase and rang the bell. The bell of Alverbank always sounded grand. It’s a big mansion with a history buried somewhere, and the bell is the only remnant of its better days. Now it’s a guardianship. This old Victorian mansion now slowly decaying on the inside is filled with another kind of tenants its architect must have had in mind. There’s about 30 of us living here. Low-class modern millennials (mostly).
But anyway, M rang the bell. And nothing happened. She rang again. Then pulled her phone out and starting calling Rafa. No reply. ‘Ah, for fuck sake Rafa!‘. One of the best things about living in a house with 30 odd people? You’ll never be locked out for long. ‘Oh hey, I’m M. I’m a friend of Rafa. I’m supposed to stay at his tonight. Do you mind letting me in?‘ ‘Tom. Sure‘. Longest conversation these two ever had together. Another amazing thing about living in a house with 30 people. Pretty easy to just completely avoid one another. I should know. There are only a few people in the world I’ve been closer to than the ones in this house. And then there’s some I have said maybe up to 20 words in the two years I’ve been here. And it’s not that we don’t meet. We do. We just chose to agree that there’s no need for us to get to know each other any further. But anyway I diverge. M did get in. Dragged her red suitcase up the massive stairs and… Found Rafa stoned and sleeping. No surprises there.