apartment 5c taylor adel
The apartment isn’t much, stiff wallpaper frayed along the stairwell where hands have passed over it during every ascent and descent since its erection in the fifties, rips visible under the pale luminescence of a grimy lamp that hangs in the corridor, always rocking with a steady creak-pop-creak, though I’ve never felt a breeze in this portion of the complex and the placement of the fixture is too high to touch, even with a broom. I know, I’ve tried. Maybe the building rests on unsteady ground. Or maybe a breeze rustles along the ceiling, leaving the lamp to swing on its own, the rest of us oblivious to the touch.
Regardless, I own the layout beyond the door labeled “5C” on the third floor. It’s mine. The chipped, bronze emblem stares at me above the peep-hole while I fumble for my key, juggling grocery bags, textbooks, and coffee cups all while my rain jacket attempts to slide down my shoulder in rebellious glee, catching the strap of my purse and threatening to send the accessory tumbling down. If it falls, everything in my hands would cascade with it, held together now by the sheer might of my awkward leaning—body positioned for balance, not comfort—and the constant, friction-seeking shrug of my shoulders. The key clicks, latch opening, and I rush into the space.
Cheap patchouli rifles my nose, invading the room from an oil burner on a filing cabinet, and I breath deep, smile lifting overworked lips. They’re always chapped, chewing on them keeps my nerves intact, but my skin doesn’t appreciate the litany of grinding, gripping teeth. Someday, I’ll stop the relentless gnawing. Not now.
Tossing my armload onto the kitchen table, an eighties replication with royal blue chickens painted on white tile, I shut the apartment door, “5C” disappearing from view, and make my way to the end of the hallway in a routine set soon after my first week of renting the space; my fist bangs on the wall, resounding yet hollow, and I yell at my neighbors to turn the music down, because who listens without concern of disrupting others to The Clash, the Misfits, and the Sex Pistols on a loop so loud it shakes the thin barrier between us? Pat and Riley.
To be honest, I’ve grown used to the noise. It’s too quiet when the neighbors are gone and the music skids to a distressing halt, but when I don’t pound my fist on the partition, a note gets taped to my door, asking after my well-being. It’s an unspoken, compulsory bond. So, I brutalize the wall and lift my voice. The shrill screeches and clanging instruments fade for a moment, then return louder an acknowledgement of my return. Smiling at the unique communication of hello, I’m home and glad you’re back, we’re here if you need something, I plod to the living room, fold over the back of the couch, and roll onto the cushions a few feet below, the whoosh of my descent followed by a soft thud as I land expertly, my feet propped up on the arm while my head meets the plush material of a pillow.
The distinct tinge of cigarettes filters up, my nose crinkling at the unwanted aroma that has yet to be rubbed out from the fabric of the sofa, but it’s still fading and, with luck, will be gone by years end.
Mine.
The garage-sale lamps, overflowing shelves filled with haphazard books, makeshift coffee table, ceramic decorations, faux-fern collecting dust in the corner, whom I’ve named Walter—it’s all mine.
Perhaps I’m a bit possessive. My half-priced belongings mean the world to me, each one collected through the years as I’ve migrated from rocky home-life to full-blown independence, graduate school handing me the reigns for a future I’d dreamed of without expecting, and one could chastise me for the aggressive way I cling to each inanimate object or piece of furniture, but just like the apartment space, these items are mine, all mine, and my possessiveness stems, if I were to guess, from my previous lack of possessions to be possessive about. Maybe it’s a compulsive flaw. Or maybe it’s a common endearment, held by many, and I’m oblivious to our similarities.
A knock swoops across the room, louder than the rising crescendo in The Clash’s harmony, and I bolt up from the couch, glancing to the digital clock above the fireplace mantel, calming the anarchy of my lips as they split into a smile that squishes my cheeks and wrinkles my eyes until the entirety of my face quivers in taunt muscles.
“One second,” I say.
There is a muffled answer while I throw the forgotten groceries into cabinets then unwring my rolled shirt in a fidget of hands and slide in front of the door. Deep breath. It swings wide as I gesture into the space, a grand sweep of my upturned palm beckoning the guest inside. His lips quirk up as he steps forward and peers around, book bag slung over a shoulder, knuckles stuffed into back pockets, neck craning to get a look at my place as he crosses the threshold.
“Wow, this is great. Very . . . you, Michael. Is that the Misfits,” Ivan asks, twisting in an observant circle, casting his gaze from one corner to the next while his smile blossoms.
My chest puffs, proud, the compliment igniting in my core as I shut the door and step towards him, making the move to the kitchen table where our coffee awaits and hours of studying will take place. Independence earned.
“It is, isn’t it? And yes, you can bang on the wall and tell them to turn it down if you want,” I say, chuckling at my odd conversation between the neighbors.
“No,” he responds, shaking his head and sitting down beside me, “it’d be quiet without it, and music helps me study.”
I nod, mouth curved up, and pull my textbook forward.
“Welcome to apartment 5C. It’s all mine. Want to start at chapter thirty-two?”
Regardless, I own the layout beyond the door labeled “5C” on the third floor. It’s mine. The chipped, bronze emblem stares at me above the peep-hole while I fumble for my key, juggling grocery bags, textbooks, and coffee cups all while my rain jacket attempts to slide down my shoulder in rebellious glee, catching the strap of my purse and threatening to send the accessory tumbling down. If it falls, everything in my hands would cascade with it, held together now by the sheer might of my awkward leaning—body positioned for balance, not comfort—and the constant, friction-seeking shrug of my shoulders. The key clicks, latch opening, and I rush into the space.
Cheap patchouli rifles my nose, invading the room from an oil burner on a filing cabinet, and I breath deep, smile lifting overworked lips. They’re always chapped, chewing on them keeps my nerves intact, but my skin doesn’t appreciate the litany of grinding, gripping teeth. Someday, I’ll stop the relentless gnawing. Not now.
Tossing my armload onto the kitchen table, an eighties replication with royal blue chickens painted on white tile, I shut the apartment door, “5C” disappearing from view, and make my way to the end of the hallway in a routine set soon after my first week of renting the space; my fist bangs on the wall, resounding yet hollow, and I yell at my neighbors to turn the music down, because who listens without concern of disrupting others to The Clash, the Misfits, and the Sex Pistols on a loop so loud it shakes the thin barrier between us? Pat and Riley.
To be honest, I’ve grown used to the noise. It’s too quiet when the neighbors are gone and the music skids to a distressing halt, but when I don’t pound my fist on the partition, a note gets taped to my door, asking after my well-being. It’s an unspoken, compulsory bond. So, I brutalize the wall and lift my voice. The shrill screeches and clanging instruments fade for a moment, then return louder an acknowledgement of my return. Smiling at the unique communication of hello, I’m home and glad you’re back, we’re here if you need something, I plod to the living room, fold over the back of the couch, and roll onto the cushions a few feet below, the whoosh of my descent followed by a soft thud as I land expertly, my feet propped up on the arm while my head meets the plush material of a pillow.
The distinct tinge of cigarettes filters up, my nose crinkling at the unwanted aroma that has yet to be rubbed out from the fabric of the sofa, but it’s still fading and, with luck, will be gone by years end.
Mine.
The garage-sale lamps, overflowing shelves filled with haphazard books, makeshift coffee table, ceramic decorations, faux-fern collecting dust in the corner, whom I’ve named Walter—it’s all mine.
Perhaps I’m a bit possessive. My half-priced belongings mean the world to me, each one collected through the years as I’ve migrated from rocky home-life to full-blown independence, graduate school handing me the reigns for a future I’d dreamed of without expecting, and one could chastise me for the aggressive way I cling to each inanimate object or piece of furniture, but just like the apartment space, these items are mine, all mine, and my possessiveness stems, if I were to guess, from my previous lack of possessions to be possessive about. Maybe it’s a compulsive flaw. Or maybe it’s a common endearment, held by many, and I’m oblivious to our similarities.
A knock swoops across the room, louder than the rising crescendo in The Clash’s harmony, and I bolt up from the couch, glancing to the digital clock above the fireplace mantel, calming the anarchy of my lips as they split into a smile that squishes my cheeks and wrinkles my eyes until the entirety of my face quivers in taunt muscles.
“One second,” I say.
There is a muffled answer while I throw the forgotten groceries into cabinets then unwring my rolled shirt in a fidget of hands and slide in front of the door. Deep breath. It swings wide as I gesture into the space, a grand sweep of my upturned palm beckoning the guest inside. His lips quirk up as he steps forward and peers around, book bag slung over a shoulder, knuckles stuffed into back pockets, neck craning to get a look at my place as he crosses the threshold.
“Wow, this is great. Very . . . you, Michael. Is that the Misfits,” Ivan asks, twisting in an observant circle, casting his gaze from one corner to the next while his smile blossoms.
My chest puffs, proud, the compliment igniting in my core as I shut the door and step towards him, making the move to the kitchen table where our coffee awaits and hours of studying will take place. Independence earned.
“It is, isn’t it? And yes, you can bang on the wall and tell them to turn it down if you want,” I say, chuckling at my odd conversation between the neighbors.
“No,” he responds, shaking his head and sitting down beside me, “it’d be quiet without it, and music helps me study.”
I nod, mouth curved up, and pull my textbook forward.
“Welcome to apartment 5C. It’s all mine. Want to start at chapter thirty-two?”
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Taylor Adel is an avid writer and reader who dabbles in baking and drinks more coffee than should be allowed. Ever. She adores her rescue dog, Homer, and finds inspiration in the weirdest places. Her short stories have been published by all the sins, The Birmingham Arts Journal, Every Day Fiction, and more. To learn what makes her tick, and to read more of her work, visit her website at https://ravingwrites.wixsite.com/tayloradel.