Past Six PM
When the heat lingers past six pm, my neighbours leave their doors open. There is no need for the radio nestled beside my hip. Not when I can tune into Channel No. 46, two doors down, where the newlywed couple that have just moved in are trying to work out how to sync their air fryer drawers.
‘It’s the match button.’
‘It’s sync for goodness sake!’
A steady thrum interrupts their argument. They’ve worked it out, or perhaps haven’t, but both are too hungry to care.
Above me, on Channel No.52, the old woman and her dusty tabby are watching the snooker. The clatter of resin balls barrelling into each other is accompanied with polite, weary clapping. She titters as her tabby knocks aside her evening Guinness to chase the balls across the static infused screen. Smashed glass tinkles alongside a creak of her chair as she stands to mop it up. Drops of foamy, malt goodness trickle their way to her balcony edge and dangle there, teasing me, before falling and landing on my bare knee. I press my fingertip to them and suck them from my skin.
Below me, on Channel No. 32, the young mother is singing the Beetlejuice Broadway soundtrack to her baby. She sings hesitantly, pausing between lines as if expecting a jeering laugh, before picking the melody back up.
I’m probably talking to myself here
But dead mom I’ve got to ask
She lost her mum last month. I watched as she held the baby on her hip and wiped chucked up milk from her black dress with the palm of her hand. I considered how long it had been since she was on her own mum’s hip. Not long enough.
She has a sweet voice. I tune into this Channel for the longest.
Past six pm the block looks like a chessboard. Some of the white uPVC doors remain shut. You have to skip over those. You’ve long since learnt some doors aren’t to be prised opened.
But most stay ajar, leaving a dark square where their Channel is left free to play and roam the air. A small child singing in the shower whilst their dad repeats the word ‘out, out, out’ to them. A knife falling on parquet and the mumbled swear so the baby doesn’t repeat it. A ratatat of gunshots and an American voice congratulating the wielder on moving up a level. A clatter of a beaded curtain and the slap of flipflops on burnt concrete as they walk to the shops for the ice cream they forgot.
My own Channel remains silent. Past six pm the Channels of others are enough to sustain me until the last door shuts, and I’m reminded of how quiet my existence is.
How lucky, to have a quiet existence.
How lucky, to have a door that can be shut.
Verity Jane (she/her) is based on the South Coast, but hopes that will soon change. She works at a literary consultancy helping other students learn how to write, whilst trying to remember her own reasons for writing. You can find her quietly observing on Instagram - @verityjanebooks