I’d Never Seen Her Like That Before
The building was a place of shuffling: slippers, cards, and mortal coils. It was stiflingly hot in the day room, and the sun through the large glass roof did little to help this. Trays of stewed vegetables were wheeled in on squeaking trollies and squeaking voices told tall tales of yesteryear. Why the hell did I want to be here?
‘She’s over there.’ My sister led the way through the labyrinth of threadbare chairs, filled with threadbare glares of helpless intrigue. Why the hell did I want to be here?
Our Nan was in the corner, by herself, reading a book. She looked lonely. She looked out of place. I felt for her.
‘Hey Nan!’ My sister always had the ability to smooth over the cracks of any situation. Nan was miserable; I knew it before even speaking to her. She was an insular person; always had been; there were too many people around for her to maintain anonymity: she was bound to be bothered every now and then.
‘Are those for me?’ She took the bunch of throttled tulips from my hand and drew me in close and kissed my cheek. She had more stubble than me, I was sure.
‘They sure are.’ My sister elbowed me as I looked around the room. She says I have a discerning gaze, but I think she means resting-bitch-face. She’s too kind. She hates that phrase. ‘Are you warm enough?’
What kind of question is that in this weather?
Nan pulled her cardy close around her neck. ‘I think so. I feel very changeable these days.’ She was looking over Tessa’s shoulder, smiling. Tessa leaned in and smoothed her hair from her forehead. In an armchair across the room a man looked up from his paper every now and then and seemed to take us all in.
I couldn’t concentrate. I had an exam to revise for: poor Ulrich…or Yurik. Whatever his bloody name is. I needed to get my head down. Tessa made small talk: the weather, our aunt and her dribbling little dog, our dad (bad topic, apparently) – but Nan wasn’t really listening. We sat with her for about half an hour before we called it. As we stood, she got a message on her mobile and smiled. We walked back though the labyrinth past the man with the newspaper and heard a ding. Another message. Another smile.
Alex Eastlake has been writing creatively now for about five years and has been published in Popshot magazine and shortlisted for other magazine submissions. He’s currently studying English Literature and Creative writing with the Open University, alongside working as a tree surgeon.