The Tenant

Part Two

Not knowing what his next move should be, he opened his bedroom door, stared down the corridor with all its rooms leading off to each side and considered his options. He could start by simply knocking on one of the doors, but which should he approach first? Big Jim certainly didn't inspire the confidence of a visitor, nor did the austerely named Alistair. Between those was the silhouette's room and he still had not worked up the courage to slip so much as an 'I'm sorry' note beneath that door. He could always just wait until one of them emerged, but for one thing he wasn't sure any of them were even at home. They could have gone on a six-month long vacation for all he knew. For another, based on the incredible lack of morning coffee schedule coincidences (even on weekends), he doubted whether he could stand there long enough to catch a glimpse of any of them. Then he remembered the coffee table next to the front door. The one portal through which all his correspondences were had. Perhaps if he left a note there it may be taken up in much the same way as his rent money. He supposed that it would be more likely to end up in the hands of the right person that way too. Feeling a little relieved at not having to face a series of potentially awkward and eviction-preceding bedroom interviews (he shivered at the thought of being stuck in such a confining space with "Big Jim"- he fancied that the smell of used sweat clothes was bound to fill the room of a man so-named). His rent was due in another two weeks, so if his note alone was ignored, he could slip it in with his rent money. At last, the calculation that he had six weeks before the fated party gave him faith enough in his chosen route.

So, that night before bed, he penned his request in as neat a hand as he possessed and crept down the darkened passage to leave it folded on the correspondence table. He had chosen not to switch on any of the passage lights so as not to disturb his housemates. As he turned from the table to make his way quietly back to his room, he noticed that there was a slight breeze in the place which had not been there before. He turned to check that the front door was securely closed. It was. Then he realised, with a different kind of chill, that the slight draft was not coming from the direction of the front door, but from down the corridor. He frowned slightly, but made his way, cautiously down the passage. Had someone left the kitchen window open? There was a door there too, but he had never opened it. He hadn't the key for it either if he wanted to. Having chosen not to use the light, he had to feel his way along the walls. The kitchen door sported frosted glass in its center, allowing for some moonlight to guide him to the front. On the way back that light was a hindrance. He moved along as quietly as he could, taking special care not to let his fingers fall too loudly upon one of his neighbours' doors. The air got cooler as he got further down the corridor until, with a heart-skipping moment, his hand travelled from the wall into an empty space.

He froze. This could not have been his room. He had only passed one other door on this side and his was the third, not the second. This, then, was the room that, when he had tried to open it, he figured to be locked from the inside- the room which he thought had fallen victim to a rather aggressive growth of mould. Yet, there was not the damp, heavy scent which characteristically accompanied such a fate. Instead, a fresh, sea breeze greeted his inhaling nostrils. The pleasant sensation caused a conflicting rush of emotions to rise within him. shook him so deeply that his legs failed him for a moment. That moment was just enough for him to sink to his knees and find that the floor was all soft, cool, sand. His hand had slipped from the door and so he reached up to grab it again but felt only air. Slowly, his eyes began adjusting to the scene around him. Light swept in, seemingly on the breeze, and showed him a piece of beauty. He took in a sharp breath. The whole scene was backward. There was an ocean, but it looked like a mass of shore-lapping galaxies and the trees (or the things which stood upright and waved gently about) were translucent.

Shakily, he got to his feet and moved toward one of these ethereal plants. His hand touched something solid, but soft. He massaged a bit of the trunk with his fingers, trying to get an idea of what it was that he was touching. It felt gelatinous. He blinked- hard and rubbed his eyes, am I dreaming? he wondered. Looking around, he couldn't fully believe that he wasn't. His eyes were drawn back to that spangled, shifting sea and he watched it for a while until a thought occurred to him that he might try his toe in the lapping galaxy. "I wouldn't do that if I were you" came a melodious, feminine voice from just beside the marvelling tenant. He started and turned to look at the speaker. She was... well, he wasn't quite sure how he knew that she was a she, but it seemed intuitive. It was not that she was brutish or masculine, so far from it in fact that he was sure he would have the same difficulty in trying to explain why she was a he. In look and in aspect she seemed entirely androgynous. Yet, he knew. Her short hair was a low, soft, lilac and had little lights scattered throughout. He realised that she was covered in the shining lights, almost as though... "Did you swim in it?" He asked without thinking about why. She turned to him. He took a step back when he saw her eyes. They were warm. Not in the figurative sense- he could feel a heat in his body when her gaze touched him. They were like burning wood in a homely fireplace. He wondered if that was all they could be.