Frank always knew it would be like this. He sat down rigidly on the mattress, his body tensing, staring at the closed window. With his suitcase perched precariously upon his lap, he reached for the bedside lamp, hearing the springs creak beneath his weight. It cast a red glow over the bedside table, revealing a small enamel mug – the sides of which were aligned with stale dregs. Beside this, an old paperback with a cracked spine; the pages yellow from age. He picked it up, examining the cover. It was an old detective novel depicting a man’s silhouette spotlighted against a brick wall, the title of which read ‘Mr Hardy’s Crimes’. He thumbed through the pages, careful not to disrupt its condition any further, before returning it to the bedside table. He set his suitcase down on the floor, its imitation oak exterior weighing down on him heavily, and moved over to the window.
Night was closing in on the empty avenue, a lone bulb shone out like a beacon from the front of a tenement building opposite. A woman could be seen folding sheets inside, her delicate form twisting and turning; in and out of the window frame. And all the while, a shadow played out the scene in the refracted glass, and again upon a white washed wall inside the apartment.
He touched his hand to the glass, leaning so close that his breath formed a patch of cloud upon its surface. His hand trailed down to the latch, resting there for a moment as he looked out at the scene unfolding before him. He opened the window, letting the night air sweep into the room; wrapping him like a sheet and ruffling the covers from their posts. Water pipes could be heard from inside the walls, steaming like a kettle.
Leaning back on the bed, his mind drifted in tangents, thoughts dissipating the moment they formed: of home and of the long journey that had landed him here. Then, removing his jacket, he took a pack of cigarettes from the pocket and hung it on the low-resting radiator by the window, before settling once more upon the bed. He lit one using his last match, inhaling deeply. Smoke rings unfurled like dancing caricatures before his eyes, mingling with the musty atmosphere of the room.
