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Zöe Beck
windows on the upper
floor. Nothing moved
behind the curtains. I
shifted my gaze up to
the dark blue sky, which
never
really
turned
black this time of year.
Somewhere, the seagulls
were screeching. A pigeon
landed on the roof. The
cat gallopped past me. I
went back into the house.
The
next
morning,
someone was standing in
my kitchen, arms crossed.
He was looking around
warily, and I stared back
even more suspiciously.
“Is there any coffee in
here, I hope?” he asked,
motionless.
I didn’t move an inch,
though I was ready tomake
a run for it if he grabbed
one of the kitchen knives.
Staying deliberately calm
in order to not rile him
up, I asked the same
things anyone else would
have asked: Who are you,
what are you doing here,
how’d you get in, what do
you want from me? He
simply groaned, rolled his
eyes, and exhaled. With
arms still folded across his
chest, he finally looked at
me and said: “I’m Flann.”
As if it were obvious and I
was an idiot.
“Who?” I sounded suitably
idiotic.
“Flann, from next door.
The old man is dead, and
I have to go somewhere.
It’s boring over there.
May I now have a cup of
coffee?”
I returned upstairs to
my bedroom, closed the
curtains, and climbed
back into bed.