Carmen

ONE

She huddled there, her cigarette between her lips, as she tried to open her door with her keys. She muttered almost inaudible curses until the sound of metal grazing metal reached her ears. With one swift twist, she unlocked her door and stepped inside. The door closed, and the latch echoed throughout the corridor.

--

There I was, hunched over my typewriter with the empty sheet of paper in it. A lot more of its crumpled brothers and sisters scattered all over the floor, half-filled with unfinished sentences and dialogues that I once hoped I could hear and say in real life.

My coffee was turning cold, the once billowing smoke from the cup now turned into wisps I could barely see.

I scratched my head, then my cheeks, and then rubbed the back of my neck--as if to desperately squeeze out anything I could write about. I could write about the human skin, but it's not like me to write anything about that. I could write about neck pain, but I'm no physical therapist.

There's got to be something more to work on than skins and neck pain.

Frustrated, I stood up from my chair and grabbed my coat. I needed some fresh air, although the city could never guarantee about giving me one. What with all the cars and factories outside.

I closed the rickety door behind me, then crouched and lifted it slightly from the base to make sure the latch is secure.

Then I saw her.

For starters, I've known her for quite a while. Not that we're close or anything. Christ, we haven't so much as said hello to each other. The thing is, somehow she looked like she'd been there for a long time, probably even before I first moved into the city. I first saw her as I struggled to carry my bags and suitcase up the stairs. She stood by the handrails, watching me walk up the stairs whilst sweating hard. I remember giving her a nod as if to greet her, then I went on my merry way and managed to bring all my possessions at the second floor of the apartment building. She, on the other hand, gracefully walked down the stairs and took off into the streets, her head protected by her pale yellow clotche and her brown coat fluttering as she stepped.

So there I was again, seeing her for the umpteenth time. Her clotche was tucked under her arm, revealing her wavy black locks that almost covered her face. She had skin as white as the empty paper at my apartment, and for a moment I feared she might be ill. I then corrected myself with the thought that perhaps it was just her cosmetics. She took an instinctive glance at me, and I got a look of her eyes--playful, coy, alluring even. A pair of obsidian irises that stuck in my head on the first time I saw them.

She smiled as if to greet me, and I returned it with a nod and a polite grin. I then walked to the stairs and descended. I could still hear her as she struggled with her keys, then the sound of the hinges swinging echoed within the building. Another swing of the hinges followed until the latch met the doorpost indicated that she had stepped inside and closed her door. I shrugged, then went on my way out to take a stroll.

Seven months, and I still don't know her name. My first impression of her is that she could be of Castilian descent. Or Italian perhaps. One of her striking features is her slightly aquiline nose. And her eyes, yes...somehow they reminded me of the seductive-looking stares of actresses I've seen in the pictures. Perhaps she's an actress as well, only that she had just started breaking in to show business.

I stopped by the local bar after a short while and ordered the usual whiskey on the rocks. Hopefully I'd have some ideas pop out on my fifth glass.

I start to think about my neighbor, and how peculiar she is to me.

Peculiar, because I rarely see her in the apartment building. Only when she opens her door during the morning, and leaving her apartment during the night.

I reckoned she's going out with friends that's why she goes out at night. But then I noticed she does this every night, and then arrives at her apartment in the morning or afternoon the next day.

She must be having a really great time.

Hours after, I still didn't have a single damn idea. I downed two bottles of whisky, and my head was spinning in different directions. The bartender let out a breathed laugh, saying a person like me should've thought twice about taking another bottle. He must have seen how dazed my eyes were, and how my mouth drooped. I told him I needed something to write about. 

"You can't force something like that, buddy," he told me as he wiped a glass. "I think that kind of thing comes out in places an' circumstances that you'd think would be unlikely."

I raised my head as my attention was piqued by his words. "You don't say?"

He chuckled as if dismissing my implication that he is a wise man at the moment. 

"Heh, well, I for one know a bit about writing. Me brother used to do that. Kept me up all night as he made a ruckus in our room tryin' to come up with something. Then I saw how he'd suddenly sit at his desk and start writing. Oh! He'd write in a frenzy. He won't do anything, he wouldn't even come down for dinner. Then, he'd stop again. he stops only when he can't write anything. Then he'd get frustrated."

I nodded. I know the feeling of having the words suddenly pop in my head, the feeling of writing as if there's no tomorrow. And then everything disappears. I suddenly find myself staring at my typewriter, not knowing how to begin.

Eventually, I'd get ideas again. Then they stop coming. Then they come again. Then they stop. It's a cycle. It frustrates me, especially when the urge to type comes in and I don't have anything in my head at the same time.

The bartender had a point. I shouldn't force it.

I paid for the two bottles and made my way to the door, almost stumbling on the carpet. The bartender had to run to assist me, and I gladly took his arm as he escorted me to the door.

"You gon' be okay by yourself?" he asked.

"I'll be fine," I said. "Lemme just call a cab."

I hailed the next cab I saw and threw myself onto the passenger seat. I gave the driver the address to my apartment and then slouched in my seat. Next thing I knew, the driver was barking at me to haul my ass out of the cab. I apparently slept in my seat. I paid the cab fare, probably more than the actual rate, and respectively hauled my miserable drunk ass out the cab.

The nausea started kicking in, and I found myself calling the crows at a stoop near the apartment gate. Funny I could see tidbits of my breakfast and some hints of my cold coffee mixed in with my vomit. I sluggishly wiped my mouth with the back of my hand and proceeded to walk up the stairs to the door. Alcohol got the best of me eventually, and everything faded to black.

--

I woke up to the light invading my eyes, and a sharp jolt of pain shot up in my head as I tried to open my eyes. I instinctively blurted out a cry as I gripped my head, trying in vain to alleviate the throbbing pain.

"You must have drunk too much."

My ears perked at the voice. It was sultry...and it had an accent. Castillan? Hispanic could be close enough. I slowly opened my eyes, careful not to shock them with the light in the room, and I found myself reclining on a worn leather couch draped with a thick blanket. I looked around and realized I was not in my apartment. A wave of alarm rushed within me, and I rose from the couch, forgetting that a headache would send me back down.

"Don't push yourself. It'll hurt even worse."

I look up and for a moment I was dumbfounded.

It was her.