Yoga Leggings

Lucia looked up just in time as a giant hunk of bread narrowly missed hitting her head as it sailed past her and landed on the ground. Getting hit by flying food was one of the perils of standing on her balcony to bathe in the unseasonal sunshine. The other one was Clara. 

Normally Lucia would have faked an appointment to get away from her neighbour’s inane chatter, but that was out the window. They weren’t allowed to leave their homes unless it was an emergency approved by the government. They couldn't even go out to buy food. The powers that be provided them with everything they needed. In theory. 

“I made some banana bread last night. Then I turned it into French toast for brunch today. Total lockdown cooking. You can see it on my Instagram account. You’re following me, right?”

Lucia looked across to the balcony on her left. Clara was picking at a thread on her zebra print yoga leggings. She lifted her foot onto her thigh to move into one of her favourite yoga poses, the tree. Clara was a yogi. She practiced three times a day. So she told Lucia during one of the many one-sided lockdown conversations they’d had over the last few weeks.

Lucia wondered if a gentle push would send Clara tumbling over her balcony. Not only would Clara’s death provide some welcome peace and quiet, but she also wouldn’t have to share her food.  

Would Clara survive the three-floor drop? She was so skinny she looked like she’d blow over in the wind, but the way she scrambled when the food tables were lowered down from the balconies above suggested differently. 

Clara’s foot slipped from tree pose. “Goddamn it. The air con from the Italians upstairs is dripping onto my balcony.”

She turned her head upwards. “Put a bucket under the pipe, you idiots. It’s not difficult.”

The doors on the balcony directly above Clara opened and the strains of opera music filtered out into the air. “Fucking typical Italians. Always so loud. And they  eat all the pasta from the food tables. It’s lucky I’m on a low carb diet. Speaking of our neighbours, how are things going with 314-c?”

“Keep your voice down,” Lucia hissed. 314-c was the man on the balcony to her right. She’d never even set eyes on him before lockdown, but now they had regular chats on their respective balconies, although they had stuck to the rules of not revealing their names to each other.

He was very tall and well built, but not in a way that suggested he spent all his time eating egg whites and doing weights. And he was sweet and sensitive. He talked openly about his feelings. In another era, they would have moved these chats to a bar or restaurant. Maybe when this was all over, Lucia thought. 

“I haven’t seen him for a few days. I’m sure he just needs a bit of time out from all this balcony chatting. I’m giving him space.”

Clara nodded. “Good plan. You don’t want to seem too keen.”

Lucia didn’t want to admit this to Clara, but she was worried about him. The balconies above him were greedy and 314-d –– the neighbour to his right –- took more than his fair share of the food. Not much had come down on 314-c’s food trays during the last few weeks. She wondered if she should have shared some of her food with him, but it was strictly prohibited to share outside your balcony groupings, and the punishments were severe.

Lucia looked down at the pavement below to distract herself from the feelings of guilt. They were completely empty. Just the police roaming around to make sure nobody left their flats. It was the cleanest she’d seen it in weeks. And no noisy traffic preventing her from sleeping at night. She inhaled deeply and thought about how lucky she was to be in this position. She had almost everything she needed.  It was bliss. Apart from Clara, of course. 

She looked at the balcony doors across the street. People on the upper floors were hanging out their laundry, smoking, stretching, texting, on their phones, taking pictures of the empty streets. The few people still left on the lower balconies were mostly sitting on the ground or slumped against the railings. 

She turned to face her balcony neighbour and got a flash of zebra print ass as she moved into a handstand. Did Clara really have to do her yoga exercises while she was on the balcony? Sensing Lucia’s eyes on her, Clara straightened up, threw her a look, and headed indoors. 

There was a shout from down below. “You bitch. You’ve eaten the last of the chorizo.”

The lower balconies had been quiet these last few days. They’d gotten their meagre rations from the food tables and were enjoying the luxury of being able to eat again. That now seemed to have come to an end.

“I only ate what was rightfully mine. It was my share.”

Lucia peered over her balcony at the women who were shouting from a balcony two floors below. From a distance, they looked similar to Clara. Slim, silky blond hair in high ponytails, dressed in colourful leggings and crop tops.

One woman –– the taller and ever so slightly thinner of the two –– grabbed the smaller one’s hair. She dragged her to the side of the railings and started to lift her up. 

There was loud whooping from a balcony above. 

“$10 on the tall woman.”

“Go on! You can do it. Grab her leggings and hoist her from behind her knees. No, not like that! You’ll never get her over that way.”

Lucia looked up. The frat boys who lived on the sixth floor –– the most privileged position –– were enjoying the action. Lucia couldn’t tell them apart from down below anymore. They both had beards that were getting longer by the minute. And they both wore baggy shorts and sleeveless t-shirts. In the last few weeks, they’d grown large guts that hung over the top of their shorts. 

The frat boys grabbed all the junk food from the weekly rations. The ready meals, the processed food, the desserts. It was a blessing in disguise. That was one thing both she and Clara agreed on. They needed healthy food to keep up their strength. 

On the balcony below the women had stopped tussling and were bent over double, heaving with the exertion of the fight. The smaller one  –– it was better not to get to know the names of the people on the first floor, they normally weren’t around long –– stood up and stretched. The taller one started to sob, which earned a pat on the arm from the smaller one.

“We’ve made it this far, mate.” 

Small continued to rub Tall’s shoulder’ 

“We haven’t killed each other or thrown each other over the side. Surely we can last a few more weeks? We’re one of the only first floor balconies still going strong.”

There was no answer. Tall had slumped onto the ground, seemingly unable to get up. It was hard to tell if she was still alive. 

Clara reappeared on the balcony now dressed in a pair of tiny denim shorts and a minuscule crop top. The flat boys whistled their approval and she blew a kiss back at them. 

“What did I miss? Any good action?”

“Nothing much. Just Tall trying to throw Small off the first-floor balcony.”

“Again?” Clara sighed. “I thought it was something interesting. Did you put a bet on?”

“No, it was over too quickly.”

Clara shrugged. “I guess they’re getting weaker. It’d be a challenge to throw someone off a balcony when you’ve only eaten scraps for the past few weeks. God, could you imagine? I’d go mad. Starving yourself by choice to a good booty and tight abs is one thing, being forced to eat the leftovers of the balconies above you is inhuman. Lucky they don’t give us knives or we’d have all stabbed each other to death. Although I’ve built up so much strength doing all this yoga that I could probably kill someone with my bare hands.”

Clara flexed the –– admittedly impressive –– muscles in her arms. Lucia stared at her for a second. The silence stretched between them.

“Right.”

“Lucia, look. I know you think I’m stupid and shallow and that I’m thriving in this situation because I’m happy starving myself and I have an ideal perspective for spying and gossip.”

“What? I - “ Lucia sputtered.

“We knew each other before the lockdown. We even know each other’s name, for god sake. We live in these tiny old apartments. The walls are so thin I can hear you sneeze. And you speak very loudly on your Zoom calls. I agree with a lot of what you’ve said about me, but I’m also a human with feelings and maybe this is just my way of coping. Did you ever think of that?”

Lucia looked at her feet. Lockdown manicures had not been a thing in her household of one, even though Clara had offered to paint her feet across the railings many times. She was starting to think she might be wrong about Clara when she heard heavy panting from the far side of her balcony.

314-c had managed to jump across the space between their balconies and was now crouching, looking ready to pounce, just a few feet away from her. 

“Give.” His breathing was ragged. “Me.”

Clara screamed loudly. “Lucia! Oh my God. Hit him. Just do something. You can’t let him kill you.”

Despite Clara’s warning, Lucia was frozen to the spot as 314-a inched toward her. 

“Give me your food.” 

He looked straight at her and held up a knife. 

“$20 dollars on the big guy!”

“Sta succedendo?”

The frat boys’ enthusiasm didn’t surprise her, but it seemed that even the opera-loving Italians were not above a bit of deadly entertainment.

I’m sorry. I –. I –.”

Lucia was shaking all over. There was movement behind her. Clara had jumped the space between their balconies.

“Look, mister. We don’t have any spare food, but even if we did, we wouldn’t share it with you.”

“GIVE ME YOUR FOOD.”

314-a took a step towards Lucia with the knife brandished in front of him. At the same time, Clara pushed Lucia out of the way, crouched low, picked him up, and threw him over the balcony like he weighed nothing more than a sack of potatoes.

There was cheering, whooping and wolf whistling from the frat boys above. Clara bowed and then peered over the balcony.

“Well, that’s him taken care of. He won’t be bothering you again.” 

“Clara, how can I ever thank you? You saved me life.”

“Meh, don’t worry. It was nothing.”

Clara looked down at her legs.

“Actually, you can get me a new pair of really expensive yoga leggings when this is all over. These ones are ruined.”