Written in response to Chuck Wendig's Flash Fiction Challenge: "Insomnia".
Chuck Wendig, Terribleminds
"Too much to ask?"
Alice looked at her clock again, 3am or thereabouts. And still the guy upstairs paced. Not heavily, nor quickly, not even backwards and forwards over the same patch of floor, as if agitated or slightly disturbed. Just footsteps around his apartment, going about his business, oblivious to the time of night.
For several nights over the past two weeks, since she'd moved in, she had been woken by this person's nocturnal activities. The first time she'd been too exhausted to care. It was the day she'd moved in, had spent it cleaning. Her meagre belongings had been unpacked and arranged, a delivered pizza eaten and the shower christened. She could have slept on the floor. The footsteps were noticed, but oblivion beckoned and she succumbed willingly. Three nights later and the padding footsteps returned. Alice remembered the first night, reflecting that she was able to ignore them. So she retired to bed unconcerned, confident that they wouldn't be a bother. But they seemed more pronounced this second time, more 'there'. On the third occasion, a couple of nights later, she began to think she had a problem. Maybe he was a night worker, or worked late shifts? Can't complain about that, the bloke's got to work. After the fourth time - a night that found her flipping from side to side in her bed, anxious to relax and ignore the soft steps above coming and going through the room - she decided to investigate. The next morning she walked upstairs and stopped on the landing. It was early, about 7am, she was ready to leave for work. Outside the door that coordinated with her own flat below she stooped slightly to listen. All was quiet. Of course it was, he was getting his beauty sleep. Probably didn't have to be at work until later that evening. She considered leaving a note, a polite one, maybe asking him to knock and say hello, join her for a cup of tea perhaps. But what if he was a weirdo? Or really old? The old have trouble sleeping sometimes don't they? And is it a he or a she? In the end she did nothing. Then, two consecutive nights of constant - but not loud - movement from above left her tired and frazzled. She was late for work, couldn't pay attention in meetings and fell asleep on the bus home. She began eating junk food, being too tired to prepare and cook real food, and napped on the sofa before her neighbour's midnight meandering began. Now, she flopped back in the bed after checking the time. Tomorrow it's Saturday, I will knock on his door. She was in a large Victorian house converted into four bijou apartments. They had once been student rents but the area had gentrified and the owner had renovated and cashed in, up scaling the rents. She was in one of two ground floor flats, the other tenant being a cocky trader who would be leaving soon for a warehouse apartment now he'd struck lucky. Upstairs lived a sturdy middle aged woman in tweed who rose early, went for brisk walks and slept like the dead. Alice had already been informed of the perfect regime for good health when they'd passed in the main entrance one day. The fourth occupant was her, to date, invisible night walker. The next morning she donned her oldest dressing gown, the towelling one kept for home hair dyes and Sunday mornings when alone, and messed up her hair more than it had been after her restless night. She wanted to look in as much distress as possible. She started for the stairs with some hesitancy and, on hearing youthful strides above (not Ms Tweedy) stopped at a handy corner to observe without being seen. The strides bounded down the stairs, accompanied by a game attempt at Paolo Nutini's 'New Shoes' and crossed the hall to the main door. Before disappearing Alice caught a flash of 6'2" of rare wholesomeness clad in jeans and charcoal grey slim fitting T-shirt. She returned to her apartment to change and fix her hair. The dilemma of course is what to say, and how to say it. She didn't want to overplay it, like a sad, single girl sulking over her lack of sleep - or lack of life for that matter. She needed to retain some pride. But hang on, he's obviously sleeping fine somehow, full of beans this morning wasn't he? Prepped and pampered she waited with her door open, to hear when he returned through the street door. She glanced in the mirror of her 'hall' - lobby really but she'd made it look nice with a handkerchief rug and the mirror framed in shabby chic gilt. Her hair was tamed and she'd donned skinny jeans and a Breton top, her 'going somewhere nice for the weekend' look. But the grey bags under her eyes hinted that she was going nowhere. Movement outside, the ratchet of key in lock and in he came. She bustled through her door. 'Hi, don't think we've met, I'm Alice, your new neighbour, here,' she indicated her apartment. 'Just below you, I think.' She smiled and nodded. 'Think I've met everyone else.' 'Great to meet you!' He took her proffered hand and shook warmly, vigorously. His handsome, rugged face creased into a beaming smile and Alice felt uplifted. 'I'm so sorry, I would have been down sooner, I love to meet our new neighbours, been tied up with a project. Where are you working? Have you been to that great tapas place on the corner yet? There's some fantastic pubs around here, great bands sometimes, you should try The Spotted Dog. Do you like real ale? My mate Toby's got a car, we take off for the coast sometimes. Join us! Great to get away isn't it? Do you play squash? You can use my Nutri-Fruit-Masher if you like ...' After a while Alice found she hadn't answered one of his questions, or spoken again. Her smile had become fixed and she struggled to continue to find this gorgeous creature alluring. And then she realised he was still talking. '... so much going on here, such a buzz, and I get inspired, you know, so I create. I don't need much sleep, I'm out for work at 5am. Do you like continental cinema? Great coffee shop up the road ... ' She would start looking for another apartment just as soon as she could get away. |
Photo on this page: From Flikr, by James O'Gorman