Old love, new
Talia arrived in a daze and a rage.
It had taken three hours. The French landlady had lied about the distance from the airport. It was the wrong one. They were not going to be best friends.
“You travelled well? Oh. I am sorry about this.”
Talia had answered frostily, to show she was a client with money; the landlady replied as someone who also had money. Silence. A hundred years earlier, in a different place, with different genders, they'd have started circling, guns drawn. And a bullet would end this. As it was, they had to try again.
“You wish to see the house?”
She nodded. They went in.
“The kitchen.”
Bigger than she expected. Tidier. More orange. She raised an eyebrow, which meant, your taste is inferior but I've coped with worse. The landlady missed nothing. A rolled-up packet of rice leant against the counter.
They went up a level.
“You pay for linen. I mentioned this, non?”
She nodded.
“The bedroom.”
It was surprisingly tidy. A shelf of books. A pair of gym shorts, folded. A bulging pillow; a shirt underneath? Clean sheets. Made bed.
“The bathroom.”
And more: a generous blue, an open shower. French toothpaste. Clean sink, albeit a little soap stain in the corner.
“The living room. The tenant uses it for work.”
The landlady looked at her, judging whether Talia had earned the right to a secret. Something in her relented, because she added in a whisper:
“He is an artiste.”
Well, yes, his easel was right there. Blank. Talia closed her eyes.
“You are well?”
She nodded but sat down at the desk by the window. A view of neighbouring slates and brickwork and a glimpse of the hills that surrounded.
“This travelling is difficult, I think, in summer. I will get water.”
Left alone, she looked at the desk. There was a leather diary. She stroked its surface — mottled and soft, black. She did not open it. A piece of paper: thoughts in progress? The handwriting was illegible but for “NEW LOVE?”
“Here is water. I am sorry about the confusion. I should say which airport is right, which one is wrong. It happens often, but still I forget. He did the same thing. The artist. My husband also was forgetting.”
A strand of grey hair had come loose from the landlady's summer knot; she pulled it back. Talia put the glass down. The landlady picked it up and wiped the desk with her sleeve: she cared about her artist. But she was too old to be “NEW LOVE?”
“You are better? We continue?”
They saw the rest of the house — the spare bedroom, the second bathroom, the bath.
It could fit two. She remembered him telling her that. It was important. She had said: We should stop seeing each other. That was four weeks ago. Now she came anyway, expecting art, or mess. Or him. Or her.
She thanked the landlady.
“L'artiste — he is coming back in a half hour. He can tell you about… Oh. It was a good visit? When do I hear from you?”
Shaking her head, Talia set off back to the wrong airport.
Holes
One day when I was seven I cut a hole in the leg of my jeans. I pretended I didn't know how it happened but the teacher told my mother.
This was during design class.
Or so I remember. I wonder. How could there have been something called design class when we were seven? Was it art? I hated art.
And what about that boy who sat next to me? Was he called Ran? He had wild red-brown hair and eyes that rolled like a doll's.
Yeah, it was summer. It was hot.
I don't respect myself for cutting holes, but I understand it.
Adam Karni Cohen was born in Boston but fled to London aged 3. He has worked for years in carpeted offices, which is one reason to write fiction.