On, off.

On. Off. On. Off.

That’s the way life is in Number 23 – well, from my perspective anyway.

John walks into the house at eight as usual, and Linda’s already home.

On.

She’s in the kitchen, presumably washing something from the sound of the tap running. He’s late, again – probably due to overtime. The tap squeaks and makes the weird gurgling sound it normally does when it’s switched off. They still haven’t got that fixed yet, but it’s on the list along with all the other jobs around the house they ignore. Her footsteps approach; she’s coming. John sighs as he takes off his coat and doesn’t bother turning to face her when she stops and leans against the kitchen doorway. She picks at the peeling paint and speaks without looking at him.

“Hi.”

“Hi.”

It’s a mutual exchange of greetings. No sense of warmth comes from it, it's simply a monotonous obligation.

“How was your day?”

John shrugs and I count the seconds until Linda’s left eye twitches. 3, 2, 1…And there it is. It’s subtle, and as usual escapes John’s attention, but it’s there.

“It was okay. Same old, same old,” he mumbles. She hates it when he shrugs, though she never seems to mention it.

“You’re late. Again,” Linda adds, her eyes keenly scouring his face for any signs of hesitation.

He doesn’t give any, he simply shrugs again.

Strike one.

“Overtime,” was his one-word reply. He grunts as he finally manages to pull off his left shoe and tosses it on the floor. “That Nigel though, he needs to calm down. Every chance he gets, he’s sucking up to the line manager. He’s practically drooling for that promotion – everyone can see it.”

It’s Linda’s turn to shrug now. “Doesn’t sound too bothersome.”

John makes a face and starts untying his other shoe. “Yeah? You try working with him.”

“He’s not bothering you, is he? So just let him be.”

John looks at her with raised eyebrows. “Kind of hard when I’m forced to see him kissing the boss' butt every three seconds.”

Linda crosses her arms. “Well he’s not doing anyone any real harm, is he?”

“He’s being annoying,” John replies as he makes his way to the kitchen, leaving his shoes on the floor. “You don’t have to disagree with everything I say, just for the sake of disagreeing, you know.” His tone sounds ever so slightly impatient.

Linda doesn’t answer straight away, her attention is directed at the shoes he left on the floor.

Another one of her pet peeves. Strike two.

She picks them up and throws them onto the shoe rack with just a tad more force than necessary before following him into the kitchen.

“What were you saying?”

John rolls his eyes as he rifles through the cupboards, purposefully opening one to cover his face so that Linda can’t see. “Nothing.”

Linda stares at him and doesn’t say a word. It’s tense, but both of them pretend it isn’t.

“Where are those crisps? You know, the ready salted ones?” John asks, changing the subject.

“I binned them,” she answers, her face completely neutral.

Strike one for John; don’t mess with his food.

He frowns. “Why?”

“They were near the end date and I needed the space for the biscuits.”

Is the bluntness in her voice intentional? Maybe. Does she know it irritates him when she moves his stuff? Definitely.

John angrily sighs. “So they weren’t even off yet? Why would you throw all of them out? You could have left some.”

“You wouldn’t have finished all of them before they went off anyway,” Linda says, looking at her nails.

John’s frown deepens. “Yes. That’s why I said you could have left some. Keeping two packets wouldn’t have hurt.” He starts looking through the packs of biscuits, taking them out of the neat piles that Linda had arranged them into earlier.

“Stop that!” she snaps, nudging him out of the way so she could sort them into their proper places.

John sulks over to the fridge and takes out a bowl of leftovers from the day before. “Why do you need so many biscuits anyway?” he asks, sniffing the bowl to see if the food is alright.

Linda takes a while to respond as she stacks the biscuits. “For Leah’s party on Saturday. I’ve talked about it all week.”

“Oh.”

Linda’s jaw tightens. “You forgot.”

“No, I just – yeah I did. Where is she?"

"At Mum's. I told you this morning."

"Oh yeah. Sorry, I forgot, I’ve had a lot on.”

She turns around at this. “Doing what exactly? What do you do at work all day other than sit in front of a computer, staring at a screen?”

Ooh, touchy subject Linda. Strike two for John, tread carefully now.

He picks at his food and pulls that face he normally does whenever Linda’s around. Tired. “Don’t start.”

“By the sound of it, that Nigel is doing more work than you. At least he’s trying to be good at his job!” 

Oh, Linda, that was a low blow.

“I am good at my job!”

“Then why aren’t you the one they want to promote? You know we need the money! If you could just put a little, and I mean a little bit of effort in to anything you do, then maybe we could actually move out of this dump!”

John chucks the bowl onto the countertop and walks out of the kitchen. “I’m not doing this tonight.”

Linda’s not done yet, though. She follows after him, her eyes blazing. “No, you never want to. You never want to talk about the problem, do you? Fine then, go on! Run away like you always do.”

John’s about to shut the living room door, probably to spend the rest of the night absorbed in mindless telly, but then Linda adds something. Just one word.

“Pathetic.”

And there it is; the final straw, the straw that broke the camel’s back, the last lick. Strike three; disrespect, and now he’s fired up.

“Oh, shut up. Like you’re any better. Fussing around with biscuits and obsessing over every little thing. At least I have a job!”

And there it is. Strike three for Linda.

“I was made redundant!”

 “Yeah, and I wasn’t, so how about finding yourself a new job rather than nagging me about mine all the flipping time!” he yells.

She looks hurt, but there’s more. It’s that glint in her eyes that’s there so often nowadays. The 'I’m-glad-you-said-that-because-here’s-what-I-can-now-say-to-you' look. She scoffs bitterly and I can tell she’s about to spit venom.

“You think you’re all that, don’t you? Wow John, you have a job! Well done for doing absolutely nothing with it! Well done for sitting on your tod all day, moaning about Nigel, maybe picking your nose occasionally. You don’t do anything. You don’t even try anymore!”

Ouch.

“I do try! How would you know? Are you there? Are you there at work with me, Linda?” he shouts. He’s red in the face – I think it was the nose-picking comment.

“If you did try, then we wouldn’t still be here in this crappy one bedroom flat in the crappiest area of this crappy town!”

“Oh, just go back to your parents, Linda.”

“Shut up. You leave if you don’t want to be around,” she retorts.

It’s so odd. They’re grown adults, but they look nothing more than two hormonal teenagers on the verge of breaking up - except they never do.

John switches on the TV and falls onto the sofa, but Linda gets in the way. He grabs the remote and presses the off button with such force that his thumb turns white. He’s about to leave, but Linda stops him.

“Oh no, you don’t.”

“For goodness sake, Linda leave. Just leave! You’re the one with the problem, so just bloody leave already!” he yells, gradually getting louder.

I wonder what the neighbours are thinking.

Linda stares at him with such dislike I find it hard to believe I’m looking at a couple of eight years. They'll be celebrating their bronze anniversary this year - well, probably not.

“We’re still talking,” she said.

“Yeah? Well, that never gets us anywhere does it?”

“Because you never listen.”

John narrows his eyes at her. That one got to him.

“Oh, I never listen. Of course.” He slaps his head forcefully and I notice the smallest flecks of hysteria in his eyes. “I forgot, sorry. It’s always me. I’m the one that never bloody listens. It’s not like you ever do anything wrong, is it? Sorry, St. Linda.”

Linda doesn’t reply. I expect an ‘I never said that!’, but she stays silent. Does she really think that? Probably. Both of them deflect blame like it's poison.

John raises his hands in surrender.

Do I sense a resolution?

“You know what? Sorry. Sorry Linda, okay? Sorry. I’ll try harder at work tomorrow, alright? Scout’s honour. Now please. Please, just leave me alone.”  

I wait for a few seconds, but Linda makes no reply.

Not quite a peaceful resolution, but one nevertheless.

John walks around her and makes a visible effort to avoid brushing past her in any way. He slams the living room door shut and the dull sound of the telly cuts through the silence. He’ll be in there for the rest of the night.

Linda’s standing alone now. She looks tired. Taking a glass of water from the kitchen, she heads for the stairs and takes off her slippers, placing them neatly onto the shoe rack. She trudges upstairs and I hear the bedroom door shut. Most likely she’ll take sleeping pills to forget the day as fast as possible. A reset if you like, although it’s never quite a full reset since there’s no waking up refreshed the next morning. It’s a half reset. Enough to end the day, but never enough to fix tomorrow.

The TV will probably stay on for a while. John will watch it until early morning and then come to bed when Linda’s definitely asleep. Neither of them like sleeping on the sofa, or compromising, so they stagger their sleeping times. It’s easier to avoid each other that way.

Linda’s in bed and John will go up later. The day is over.

Off.

And that’s just another day at Number 23. I’ve watched them for so long, that I feel like I know them. They don’t see me of course, and they never will. I’m just a silent observer, and that’s all I’ll ever be. I watch them and many other Johns and Lindas just like them. I fly here in the morning, perch myself by the window and fly away in the evening. I feel sorry for them more than anything. They’re all stuck in this cycle of bitterness, but I'm not. I'm just a casual visitor to their troubles. I’m free. As free as a bird.