By Ernest Alanki
Photo by Julie70
Cameron is an annoying character at work, who prides himself for being a Londoner as if it is a first class degree earned from Oxford. You hate his guts. You dislike when he stares at your chest. He makes you wonder whether your breasts hold some secret to his absurdity.
One morning, you sit at your desk thinking about little quirks in your life, pretending to be working, when Cameron walks up and hands you a note.
He says it came in under his door. “It’s in Swedish,” he informs you and says he can’t understand a shit.
You wonder what the note has to do with you. It isn’t like you and Cameron are bosom friends. You hardly exchange small conversation. Not even about the weather, like regular strangers do.
“What do you want me to do?” You ask Cameron, taking the sheet of paper from his hand.
“Translate it … please,” he says as if it is your duty.
You contemplate telling him to consider hiring a translator for company work. It was his choice to move to Sweden. But the polite Swede you are works against your choicest wish.
You start reading the note and notice the familiar deep black ink gliding with ease across the white page. A sickening tremor erupts at the base of your stomach, fanning a sharp ache up the sides of your head.
“What does it say?” Cameron leans forward, his big hands flat on your desk. You detest the sight of those hands touching your desk. The smell of his cologne worsens the squirm in your stomach.
“Your nightly…” You suck your lips.
Cameron bends closer. “Your nightly what?” he says.
“…sexual exploits are going to ruin my life next door. Turn it down, please!”
You rush through the note, your face glowing traffic light red when you come to the end. You know because the cinders on your cheeks burn through to your brain.
“Something wrong?” Cameron asks. “I’m the one to be embarrassed … and of course I am.”
His tone tells you something else.
You look up at Cameron, hating his odd triangle of a smug face. Eyes proud, chin held high as if you have just certified him a genius.
“I suppose you know what this means,” you manage to say without letting out the steam broiling inside your chest, and hand the note back to Cameron.
“I suppose so, Ms. Emma.” Cameron straightens up. “Sorry for the pleasure — the displeasure, I mean to say.” He grins wolfishly.
You are feeling quite sick by now. So you say nothing. There isn’t anything to say you can think of. You are disgusted to say the least. But how do you say that without exploding?
Cameron leaves. You dash to the toilet and vomit in the bowl. Back in the office, you call your best friend, Laura.
“Can I stay at your place tonight?” you ask about to crush the mobile in your grip.
“Of course, you know you are always welcome,” Laura says, her voice joyful, which is no surprise to you. Laura is the goddess of happiness.
“I may actually have to stay a few days until I find a new apartment,” you say. “Do you mind?”
“This sounds serious,” Laura replies, her cheerfulness replaced by one of concern.
“I just found out who my neighbor is.”
“The noisy one?”
You grow silent as Cameron passes by, a cocksure smile on his thin as a pancake lips. You know all the while the dirty bastard has been playing games with your mind, because you know he wants you. You feel terrible because now he thinks you think he’s a hot smoking gun, a sharp shooter … that you now know what you are missing.
The day is crushing and long. The next morning you barely drag yourself into office. On the way in, you pass a car crash scene and wish it were Cameron.
“Have you heard the news?” the receptionist tells you when you carry your slumped shoulders into the office.
You say no, but your mind is all wound up to be interested, because you can’t get Cameron out of your head. You can’t stand the thought of another long day in the same building with him.
“Cameron is dead,” the receptionist says, as though all the ice in the Arctic has been dumped on her.
At first you think you are dreaming or that you heard her wrong. You stop in your steps, noticing the office is silent like a funeral service.
“He died in a car crash when he left work yesterday,” the receptionist says.
A gust of guilt whirls in and settles in the deep crevices in your heart and almost strangles your conscience.
Many years have gone by now, yet often you find yourself wondering whether it makes a difference to be friendly to those you don’t like and whether anyone even cares.
Ernest Alanki writes short stories, poems and novel length fiction. His works have appeared or will soon feature in The Journal of Microliterature, Dunia Magazine and The American Mensa ltd., writer’s magazine (Calliope), Big Stupid and Ngoh Kuoh Reviews.
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