peut-être ce n’est pas signifié

So it began. The noise. The stomping. The headaches.

Things would forever be polluted with the difference and the awkwardness.

It was as if there were a child running around the apartment upstairs: banging pots and pans together, pulling books from the shelves and creating an all-round ruckus amonst the delicate decor.

The pounding would spark the beginnings of a migrane, one that would explode into existence everytime, a look was aimed.

It was difficult to explain just how complicated the situation would become. There would be giggling at first, then smiling while trying to perk attentions.

Excellent. There was only one particular way to go. It was not going to be easy, it was not going to be fun.

Someone would have to go across the room, leaving the lights on as they went. Cross the hall to the front door. Unfasten the dead bolt.

Someone would have to leave the door open behind them, trusting that the goodness in people would overcome the bad.

Someone would to have to begin to mount the stairs, marching steadily up two flights till they got to the landing.

Someone would have to beeline to the door across the hallway, raise their fist and begin to pound, just like someone’s migrane.

The clanging of the pots and the soft thumping of the books would cease fire on someone’s head and a sound would be heard from the other side of the door.

It would open just a crack.

A small figure holding a deep-bottomed pot lid would come to the door, eyes peering through the little crack the bolt made.

“Yes?” The small figure would say, drawing back into themselves, unaware of how much frustration they had caused.

“Please. I just want to be alone with my thoughts.” Someone would mutter, trying not to look into the welling eyes and the innocent face.

“I was just trying to make music for you. I know how much you like it.” The child would say, scuffing their shoe on the threadbare entrance rug.

“I know.” Someone would reply startling themselves. “But I just need you to understand. Can you do this?”

“I want to.” They would say.

The door would shut softly, the lock clicking back into safety, ensuring that the contents of the inside would be protected.

Someone would pad back down the stairs to the entrance to their life and in turn close their own door. It would lock also, keeping out the bugs and the hurt.

That would be the end of that.