the landlady
she moved into the living room so casually no one protested. it’s a chill household, she had said. I lived by it even as the first livid blotches of mould spread up the kitchen wall and death took residence on the couch. I could understand her moaning in Slovakian on long international calls. I was imagining the people who tell her, I love you, when I heard their garbled voices on speaker through the thin wall. during the first confrontation, organized to nudge her dreamlike illegality, I was momentarily convinced by her embarrassed crying – narcissism and bureaucratic drama resonate universally. in another city, where my home is, I eat falafels in the cemetery and everyone stops at a red light. our ideas of morality never overlapped even though she tried to adopt my language of fairness. when she turned down the heating, I breathed out puffs of condensation during winter morning meditations, boiling inside. have you ever swallowed injustice for breakfast, lunch and dinner? insanity stood in front of me naked and proud and I was briefly enchanted by the sweet innocence of retaliatory animalism. imagine I, too, could go mad. spit into her yoghurt pot or piss into her plants. instead, I started using her comb because I knew she hated my black hair mixing with her blonde. in another city, where my other home is, people secretly make each other crazy too. suddenly, she went away, making vows of forever. I rolled out the moroccan carpet and hung the fig poster I had bought for my 19th birthday. sat in my painstakingly conquered home. with a spirit of gratitude, I circled the living room six times waving the palo santo stick until the smoke turned white, signifying cleansed energy. maybe I should have burnt sage. the housewarming party gradually turned into a wake as we reminisced about her most outrageous acts. the door slammed shut and we laughed in delightful oblivion, it’s her ghost. maybe her name was said too many times. before her smell had dissipated, she warned us about coming back. this time we researched our rights, demanded reasons and finish times. all questions dispersed with one message – you’ve caused me enough trouble, move out. that night I made falafels with pomegranate seeds, breathing in the remnants of home. held my breath. the clock ticking.
cauliflower, mushroom cloud
Julia Kuniewicz is from Poland, studies anthropology in London and lives part-time in Copenhagen. She explores the resulting confusion in her work, asking questions about belonging, gender, and the body. instagram: @figafigafigafigafiga