Apartment 304

The apartment was on the fifth floor, and the building had no lift. I barely knew where I was, had lost sense of time and place somewhere over the Pacific. I had been living on Monday for two or three days. I could barely lift my legs. And those stairs.

WELCOME HOME

The multi-colored letters were strung across the door how birthday banners hang above someone with cake. It was doubtful I could stomach cake. My body craved sleep, or something resembling it. I wanted to sleep for twenty-two hours like koalas did.

She accidentally smashed the koala candle I gave her at the airport. Slipped from her hands onto the polished floor at the arrivals gate. I hoped it wasn’t a bad omen. The welcome message across the door was a nice touch though. I reminded myself of that—despite nothing feeling like home, and everything screaming foreign.

“Here’s your key,” she said, placing it in my hand and smiling. “I got one cut yesterday. Do you like the key ring?”

I rolled it between my fingers. A small blue globe, the name of this new city etched across the middle, where the equator would be. I looked at the silhouettes of nameless countries but couldn’t find my own.

The door opened and I dropped my heavy bag onto the floor, removed my shoes on a grey mat, empty apart from a pair of black boots with snow and salt visible on the heel.

She introduced me to the elderly cat, who flicked its tail twice and rubbed against one of the cream sofas occupying the living room.

“Hello,” I said.

The cat abruptly turned, exposed its ass, and slinked back into the shadows it came from.

“It might take a while,” she said. “Usually doesn’t like people.”

I took my bag into the sole bedroom, placed it beside the bed. I would unpack later, maybe in a week, or whenever I reached the point of acceptance. I watched her position the koala on a bedside table, clumsily putting him back together, the wick protruding from his little head and looking forlorn.

She gave me a quick tour of the apartment, then switched on the TV. A hockey game was playing.

“Who is winning?” I asked.

“Not us,” she said. “Never us.”

I stood mesmerized, fastened to the spot, having forgotten how to move, and unsure whether I should eat, sit down, or wash the grime of air travel from my pores.

“Have you ever seen hockey?” she asked.

I shook my head. “Might have a shower.”

She showed me where the towels were stored and said she had been to the drug store earlier that day, purchased body wash for me—her mother’s idea. “Hope you don’t mind.”

I looked at the red bottle with a bear on the front. “Thank you.”

Once showered, I noticed bags under my eyes, dark circles taking over. My legs had turned to jelly, movements slow. I entered the living room, sipping water from a glass. She was wearing a pink dressing gown, black hair pulled into a bun, and was rubbing hand cream into her palms that smelt like chamomile.

“There are banana muffins in the kitchen,” she said. “Made them before the airport.”

I smiled and approached the counter, feeling the cold white tiles against my bare feet. The muffins were neatly piled onto a silver cooling rack beside the stove. They were still warm. I opened cupboard doors, searching for a plate, not wanting to litter the apartment with crumbs on my first night. I only found tea boxes, tinned food, and stacks of mail from people I didn’t know.

“Where do you keep the plates?” I asked.

“Bottom left,” she replied.

I sank onto the couch beside her, plate in hand. “Delicious,” I said. “You’re very talented.”

She smiled. “Thank you.”

I was unable to finish the muffin; it kept rising in my throat whenever I attempted to swallow. I sipped more water.

Sirens echoed along the dark street outside. I walked towards the windows and watched the snow falling upon the pine tree and parked cars below.

“They will have to dig them out in the morning,” she said, laughing.

I tried to hide a yawn, failed.

“Bed?” she asked.

I nodded. “Sounds good.”

When my head landed on the pillow, I started shaking. It came in waves, rippling up my legs, torso, and extending through my arms. She held my hand, and I felt myself drifting fast, breath trying to catch a body already sleeping.

I woke to her mouth between my legs, head slowly bobbing under the blankets. I could’ve been sleeping for hours, but the digital clock, glowing red, told me it was only minutes. I wanted to resist, beg for sleep, but felt my body surrender and release.

My eyes were still closed when I awkwardly placed a hand between her legs and started rubbing her. She climaxed in seconds. I didn’t think such things were possible; it had never happened previously, but then everything was new in this country, and there was nothing to suggest such things would be immune.

I rolled over, felt myself falling again, and then her arms wrapped around me, her bush pressing against my lower back.

It was cold and white outside in the morning, everything still and silent except for teenagers drawing a large penis in the fresh snow. I sat on the couch and tried to choke down a bowl of cereal, but the nausea continued, and each mouthful pushed me closer to the brink.

“Can’t eat?” she asked.

“Must be the jet lag,” I shrugged.

A reporter was on the television standing outside a weirdly shaped office building. The mayor was in trouble.

“Mum is looking forward to meeting you on Thursday,” she said.

“That’s nice,” I replied. “Are we still going to that Italian place?”

She nodded. “It’s an institution.”

A weather presenter had left the studio and was standing before large snowplows, which had been working hard throughout the city overnight. The footage cut to salt mountains, and more dozers. They were saying a polar vortex was expected. I felt a headache coming, eyes wanting to close.

I rose from the couch and walked across the room. “Might go back to sleep.”

She stared at me. “Are you always going to be like this?”