Right next to him was she. She must have heard him stir and reach the thermostat at night when it was cold. Perhaps the light hum of the gas. He had new soft close hinges installed, in order not to wake her, and sometimes he’d wait to flush till morning. He wore socks inside and used subtitles on the tv. One time he heard her mouthing along to Golden Slumbers. Still, she rarely heard music. Sometimes he saw her home from the window outfitted in layers over her white coat.
They’d often shower together in the mornings, sharing the early warm water. But luckily for him, she’d take longer with her hair probably and didn’t walk out with him. Or take the same bus, because then he wouldn’t know what to say, how to justify what he was looking at or thinking all the time.

 

For he often watched old people on his commute, noting their faces, how they walked, sat, and carried their bags and things. He was glad to see them without canes and walkers, with full hair, and most importantly, in each other’s company. One woman pushed a tray-table, but he never saw her ride it. An old man smoked a black pipe even though he probably shouldn’t. This, their everyday martyrdom. His reflection in the window revealed a fear of growing old and also of staying the same.

 

Once when he was still sick, he heard her on the phone. It was almost as if she spoke to herself. So he imagined in the silent words: Hey, yes, wait, no, okay, what do you, sure, ok, ok, no, well, fine. She dropped onto bed and they were both silent for a long time. Some hours later he went for medicine, and caught her attention when he dropped his tray in the corridor. She wasn’t alone.
Each room was likely the same with space enough for one or two personal things. A bookcase and her painted vanity dresser. The best part, the great slanted roof window. Covered in leaves or snow, the rain played on it for hours. The moon looked in and flocks of birds passed by, and it opened wide to immense quantities of air, life and noise which passed his room.

In the warm weeks prior, they were always slightly open, and he’d move the desk and stand right under it to feel the breeze on his head. He let his head dangle over the cool ledge and took sips of his juice while stealing looks at other windows. On very special days she had cigarettes and the tranquil smoke drifted through the open rooms and he savored her closeness. There was a line of trees in their view, while hidden behind, more of the same windows and rooms. They both had the sunrise, but never the sun set.
The old Park used to be for sunsets and taking a book with him as an afterthought to his bottle of wine. He liked to read a short story about a man in quicksand when someone once motioned to sit next to him. She searched her bag while he found a place to put the wine so she could sit.
An untouched sandwich appeared and they talked about the landlord, a squirrel climbing the tree, lists of things and people he cared about, and progress.
And she noticed his book and asked, so he told her everything about quicksand. Forgoing the metaphor, he told her how to escape. Inhale big, loose your shoes, let yourself sink and don’t move. Now, lean back against the sand like you’re floating down a river and don’t forget to twist your legs like you’re making smoothie with way too much fruit. Kick the pulp but resist the urge to pull your legs up in a hurry all the way, the sands too strong, and you wouldn’t do that in water either, but you’ll get there. When they’re out, turn on your belly and crawl like a baby and begin life anew. They laughed when he couldn’t say where it truly exists, but promised to let her know when he found out. She motioned towards the dissolving sun on the horizon and resumed her way home, at least an hour late. He stayed until it became cold and followed the same way home.
Some nights before, he heard her at the door, again. Some things moved and two distant voices stammered around the room. Later a thick virile smoke filled his room. It burned his eyes and suffocated everything around him. He kept his head down and crawled to the bathroom shower and sat by it before he heard it turn on. He began to spray the small tiles with loads of bleach until everything was covered, his fingers hurt, and he had a hard time breathing. He thought about running the cold water over them, but managed to wait with a hand towel over his mouth. Sometime before twilight he awoke to the door opening and the sound of footsteps leaving, and daylight.

 

Weeks later, someone came to visit him. “Someone’s here to visit you.” A real pretty one.
She stood by the door some time, then crossed nervously towards the window besides his bed. Gillian’s Island, she said. Well, actually anywhere really where the conditions are right, you know, like a beach tide or some old construction site with a lot of sand and ground water, but you know how to get out, and you can always call for help, you know that now, right? No need to worry. Anyways I’m just glad to see you.  How are you feeling?

Really better, I think.