...a deathly serenade...

froze not knowing whether she would even let me
into her apartment. I wondered what I would
even find there. She turned and looked at me
stood at the bottom of the stairs and just looked
exasperated as if in a personal hell; closing her
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
AA eyes for twice as long as the natural blinking time
and then reopened them to then tilt her head,
turn around and continuing to walk up the stairs.
I took this as her way of talking—full drama—and
followed up two flights of stairs to a brown door,
number 17. As soon as we entered through the
door we were confronted by a slim man; who was
wearing tiny bright-green underpants and was
holding a red bowl, standing, watching a loud
television emanating pictures of what looked like
a soap opera. I couldn’t really tell. This man
paused.
—I haven’t seen you in a while, placing the red
bowl down on a side table and placing an arm on
his muscular hip, forming a clear triangle. I took a
moment to just look around at her apartment, just
like I imagined: there were clothes everywhere;
over a long brown sofa, flung on chairs, sitting on
the floor. Noticeably there is baroque feeling to
the setting. So this is your place, I said. Besides
the strangeness of what we were confronted by, I
was beginning to assume certain things: even
though I couldn’t smell much, I instantly sensed
that the room had a strange smell, it would have
taken more concentration for me to be able to tell
otherwise. She started to stutter slightly: O
hmmm...yes...okay...I forget... I remember the
reason why her English was quite decent for her
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