The Landlord

I let myself in on Monday evening with the spare key on its green plastic tag. Three months of unpaid rent had passed, and the smell in the hall already carried what waited on the other side of the door. and there you were, in the centre of the room, suspended from the rafters, toes pointed downward into the empty space.

the rope was good manila; the kind sold at the hardware shop on Commercial Road, the paper bag and receipt still lay on the table. above, it creaked softly as the body turned in the still air, a small dry sound that came and went with each slow movement.

Nina Simone going round on the turntable, needle stuck in the run-out groove, click, hiss, click, hiss. my baby just cares for me. In the corner, the cat had left its mark days earlier, a yellow stain dried into the floor, the odour of it settled and unmoving. that’s how I know how long you’ve been up there, the cat gave up before you were found, and you let go the same way, right at the end, the last of your dignity down your own leg.

I stand in the doorway and light a cigarette. I look at the cat, I look at you, swaying like a broken metronome, tongue fat and purple, eyes open like you’re still trying to figure the bill. then I stepped back into the hall and closed the door behind me. I remained there a moment longer than I meant to, with nothing left to hear but the quiet that had taken the place of everything else.

ever-mounting debt,
the summons, the court letters,
pills and booze and fags.