The Other Side(7)

“May I please speak to Toby?” The voice is female, scratchy like she’s just woken up or has a cold, and unexpectedly pleasant.

Which trips me up because I’m not usually on the receiving end of unexpectedly pleasant. “This is Toby,” I answer clumsily.

“This is Alice.”

Alice? I wait, hoping she’ll keep talking because I can’t place the name.

“Alice in 2A,” she adds.

Oh, Say goodbye to hope Alice, the new tenant. “Right,” I confirm, mostly to myself.

“Um…Johnny said if we…you know…if we had any issues to call…you.” Her voice is soft again like it was when I met her, but the hesitation sounds like she’s the type of person who hates asking for help.

“Yeah.” I pause, but when she doesn’t continue, I ask, “What’s the problem?”

“The toilet won’t flush. I’m sorry to bother you, but…it’s…urgent…if you know what I mean…” she trails off.

“I’ll be down in a few.” I hang up the phone before she can say anything else, unlock the useless padlock again, stow my backpack and skateboard, lock up, and grab the toolbox from on top of the fridge instead.

The door is open at 2A when I approach, but I knock anyway before I step inside.

“Toby?” Alice calls, which is odd because she’s standing six feet inside the door looking right at me. Doesn’t she recognize me? Not that I’m the sort of person who’s memorable, but we met less than forty-eight hours ago.

“Yeah,” I snip. I’m already irritated that my trip to the comic store has been delayed and now I can’t figure out what’s going on here. Is she messing with me? Does she have short-term amnesia? Is she high?

Again, she’s staring directly at me when she says, “Come in.”

I step inside, into the cramped living room that’s void of furniture except one small love seat with more exposed foam than upholstery and four milk crates filled with records. I leave the door open, feeling it’s better for both of us if I do.

She turns and starts walking toward one of the two bedrooms. I stop and watch her instead of following. Her steps are short in length and she barely lifts her feet off the hardwood, she’s cautious. And her arms are stretched out in front of her slightly at waist height, fingers fluttering up and down slightly like she’s playing a piano.

I assume she’s going into her bedroom to leave me alone to do my thing, and normally that’s exactly what I would do, but for some reason I say, “I’ll take a look at the toilet.”

At the doorway she stops, points, and says with mild confidence, “Yeah, it’s right in here.”

I don’t know what to say, so I go with the obvious. “That’s a bedroom.”

She turns toward my voice behind her and a pair of red splotches blossom on her cheeks. “Sorry, I’m still getting used to the layout and I’m still half asleep. Next door to the left, isn’t it?” she asks sheepishly.

I nod, noticing her pajamas are a pair of boxer shorts and a ragged, thin Siouxsie and the Banshees T-shirt.

She pauses like she’s waiting for me to speak.

I pause, realizing the distinct shape of every curve and color housed inside her white, threadbare shirt is veiled slightly, but unequivocally unconcealed, and drop my eyes to the boxers. Nope, not any better, they’re thin too. Red bikini panties are a siren beneath the pale blue and white stripes. I drop my eyes lower to her knees and am met with stark ivory skin wrapped around mile-long legs. Jesus, the temptations are never-ending.

When I, thankfully, see her hands begin to feel their way along the wall, I clear my throat because embarrassment—not for her but for me, the callous asshole and apparent pervert—is clogging it. She’s blind.

I vocally answer in the affirmative, “Yes, next door to the left,” and silently tuck the undeniable attraction away because it’s been overshadowed by the blunt reality of my shame.

“Thanks,” she says on a sleepy smile as her hand floats over the opening of the bathroom door.

Giving her time to enter the tiny bathroom, I wait until she decides where she’s going to stand before I enter and shimmy past her.

“Sorry,” she says when I brush her arm with mine.

She’s trying to shrink into herself to make more room for me even though her back is already up against the wall, but she’s not timid. She’s self-assured; there isn’t an ounce of unease in her.

Which is probably because all of the unease in the universe has been absorbed into my bloodstream. I’m sustaining myself on it at the moment, and it sucks.

“It’s okay. The room’s small.” Not sure why I added that part. She may be blind, but she can get a sense of space by touch. This room is small enough that if you stand in the middle with arms outstretched, parallel walls are easily touched on both sides. I’m an idiot.

“It is,” she agrees. “I like it that way.”

Lifting the lid on the back of the toilet, I don’t comment and take a look inside. The chain connected to the flapper that lifts it up and down is broken; one of the links is cracked and split in two. I dig around in the toolbox and find a small coil of stainless steel wire and snip off two inches of it. The chain will need to be replaced but making a temporary link out of this wire should work for a while. The water in the tank is cold when I submerge my hands, so I make quick work of it.