And The Jingle of Keys

The elevator hiccupped up to the third floor, the light flickering on cue as though a stagehand had flipped a switch. Nora was used to the rattle, the hiccups, of dwelling in the throat of an unoiled tinman who would hock her up onto the third floor like phlegm. She grimaced at her pallid and ghostly reflection; her lips were a purplish blue from the cold outside, and the sterile light made holes of her eyes. She wiped at her smudged mascara with her free hand, a bag of crisps tucked under the other, and the doors screeched open behind her.

Alex had always insisted on taking the stairs.

Nora unlocked the front door, Unchained Melody playing in her ears—I’ve hungered for your touch—as she entered the hallway, and then the kitchen where she dropped her keys and crisps onto the moonlit table. Nora slid into a chair, the chairback digging into her shoulder blades as she stared at the white lace curtain frolicking in the breeze, at its semitransparent shadow licking the tabletop like a blue flame.

She heaved a sigh, as though that crumply pocket of plastic had contained not the mere weight of a salty snack, but the weight of the world, her worries, her weariness; and she was now unburdened.

The pantry door hinges cried as they were opened, and a tin of coffee beans glared out at Nora from behind the spices. She pushed aside the six-pack of beer she’d sought, pushed aside the pepper and the jar of turmeric glowing like a lantern in the dimness.

She pulled the tin from the back of the pantry and dusted a small coat of dust from its lid. Now this carried the weight of the world, her worries, her weariness.

She could always dispose of it, or shove it back into the shadows, but instead she screwed it open, and the bitter aroma of coffee beans wafted around her, the bitter aroma of distant Sundays and Sudoku. They’d stopped playing long before he’d left, long before he’d loaded up his teeny-weeny Getz with an entire home. And by home, I mean the little things, I mean the bridal sheets his mother bought them, the crockery he’d made in ceramics, the coffee grinder, the cacti, all the good socks, and oddly enough a bag of wine corks they’d been meaning to upcycle; these, of course, amongst other things.

Nora’s wardrobe had never looked so empty, and she’d stuffed the back of the sock drawer with toilet paper rolls to create the illusion of fullness.

Nora sat on the kitchen tiles in a patch of quivering moonlight—the curtain billowed in the breeze—where she cradled the cold, grey tin.

And time goes by so slowly, and time can do so much.

God, was she an idiot! sniffling, crying, bawling into a tin of coffee beans she could no longer smell (thanks to the constant sniffing and the consequential desensitisation of her olfactory sense). And when her right earphone fell out—due to the oh so flattering facial expressions that accompanied her sobs—she was distracted for a brief, merciful moment, and then removed the other.

Silence, save for the ticking clock.

Nora scoffed, closed the coffee tin, slid it deep into the pantry, and grabbed that enticing six-pack of beer.

“Jump off the terrace.”

Not that rusted, bass voice...

Nora swung around and found him sitting on the crisps packet as though it were a beanbag. He, Catullus, was the size of Nora’s forefinger, his torso bronze and sculpted, his short, curly hair a chestnut brown, his eyes an ivy green, and his wings trimmed in glowing emerald.

“I know you’ve yearned for me,” he said, and as he launched himself into the air, the packet of crisps burst open with a whistle.

Now silence, save for the ticking clock.

An instant elapsed,

and another,

and another.

“That wasn’t my intention,” he said, hovering in the shadows above the tabletop, above the open crisps, above the glinting housekeys, his small wings, now a green aura, fluttering like those of a hummingbird.

“How are you, Catullus?”

Nora had to admit, there was some truth to what he’d said. His presence felt like a promise; it was constant, unlike that of everyone else. How could she not long for that stability? He would always be there.

“I must say,” said Catullus, hovering before her eyes, “that I regret finding you here.”

Nora stared into his ivy eyes, his freckled nose, his pouty lips and Cupid’s bow.

“Where?”

“In the human realm, Nora, where you suffer thus.”

Catullus scanned her red lids, wet lashes and smudged mascara.

“Sit down,” he said, “and help yourself to a crisp.”

Nora smiled, plonked the beer onto the table, and sunk into a chair.

Silence, save for the ticking clock.

She cracked open a can, and raised it to her lips. Chug, chug, chug.

Catullus drifted down to the table like a tissue, where he landed gracefully on bare feet, his green aura reassuming the form of wings which fluttered an instant, and then folded up behind him.

“And how are you, Nora?”

“Lonely.”

“What else?”

She popped a crisp into her mouth. “Disillusioned.”

“What else?”

“Disappointed.”

Catullus, cross-legged on the moonlit tabletop, remained silent.

“Angry,” Nora continued.

A moment elapsed as she took another sip of beer.

“Hopeless, resigned, world-weary.”

“That’s because you crave meaning,” said Catullus.

“Don’t you?”

“No. To crave meaning implies a lack thereof. Not even my kind know why mortals are born with this innate paradox which promises lifelong suffering.”

“But why don’t you, how don’t you?”

“Nora,” said Catullus, shaking his head. “Just as it is inherent in you to crave meaning, it is inherent in me not to.”

Nora slouched back in her chair.

Silence, save for the ticking clock.

“Jump off the terrace,” whispered Catullus.

Nora shook her head.

“Might we stargaze, then?”

“Not tonight.”

Nora couldn’t trust her starry-eyed self with that one seductive instant, where jumping was so absurd a thought that she might actually do it, she might finally surrender to the surreal.

“I think this is mania,” whispered Nora, more to herself than to him.

“Of course, by mortal standards; all that which man cannot grasp is a delusion. God forbid the inexplicable illuminate the limitations of the mortal mind.”

Nora downed her beer, and cracked open another can.

“Nora,” said Catullus, uncrossing his legs and rising. “To perceive that which is unfathomable to the masses is labelled madness, for everything is measured within the limited parameters of mortal understanding.”

He unfolded his wings which began to flutter green.

“But within these limited parameters is the ability to fathom and even perceive some, albeit few, of said limitations; that is to say, man’s blind spots. Those who rightly claim this ignorance, however, are far and few between; they’re you, Nora, and they’re mad.”

Silence, save for the ticking clock.

“Jump off the terrace,” pleaded Catullus, now hovering before her nose, his wings now an emerald aura.

Nora sighed and stared into the keys on the moonlit tabletop; she could feel the breeze now, a spine-chilling breeze.

“Hey,” said Catullus. “Look at me.”

She lifted her eyes to meet his.

“You can trust me,” he said.

An instant elapsed,

and another,

and another.

Silence, save for the ticking clock and the jingle of keys.