The Loft
On a mildly warm autumn morning, the sun shone through
the large bare wood panelled windows that wrapped themselves immodestly around
two of the four walls that made up his large open plan loft apartment. The
white walls wore black and white framed pictures of different sizes which
portrayed New York skylines, Johannesburg streets, Spanish matadors,
Kenyan Masai and a host of other things I didn’t know much about. A few
dramatically abstract canvass paintings sat loud and proud on the floor and
leaned nonchalantly against the windows. I threw a glance at the expansive
ceilings that had three big medieval light fixtures stuck onto them, drew two
deep breaths and decided to get up. I lifted myself off of the bed and the cold
grey concrete floor jumped up to meet my feet. Standing up, I walked about the
space taking in the furnishings that adorned the place. Sporadic and clean and
white with tiny throws of colour in the form of cushions, vases, pashminas
tossed casually on the sofa and of cause the paintings on the floor. Just off
the entrance lay the kitchen area, all stainless steel appliances, lacquered
white cupboards, black painted wooden open shelving which carried on it teal,
orange and white mismatched bowls and cups and plates and canisters and other
things required for the functionality of a kitchen. Just off the kitchen was
the only door inside this big room, I concluded that beyond it lay the bathroom
and decided not to go through it.
I stopped for a moment and looked aimlessly around, when
I noticed the balcony on the other side of one of the windows. I steadied
myself towards it and on my way lost focus when I found a hand written note
placed on a small study desk weighed down by a heavy pearl coloured rock which
served as a paper weight, “make yourself at home,” it read “I’m just meeting a
client, please don’t leave. I’ll bring some coffee back with me. Xoxo.” I sat
on the chair beside of desk and took it all in and a smile grew slowly on my
face.
With the steady rise of the sun the balcony beckoned for
my presence and I ran out onto it. Opening the wide glass doors that made up
part of the windows, the noise of people and cars going about their business in
the street below was a harsh invasion of the silence on the inside. Although I
was some way away from the ground level, on the eighth floor to be exact, I
heard people’s laughter and small bits of their conversations. There was a
distant sound made by sort of heavy machinery, taxi’s hooting, loud kwaito
music coming from the building that stood in front of me and on it, three men
on scaffolding were putting black and grey stripes onto that building and
although it would ordinarily have not been possible, the heavy wind that blew
encouraged my nostrils to take in the paint fumes. These combined with the
smell of the sun presented a unique sensation to my senses.
Having adequately absorbed the balcony and all it had to
offer I walked back into the flat and for the first time since my arrival I saw
his personal pictures in wooden frames placed in a cluster on a small coffee
table just of the door that took me out onto the veranda. These were pictures
of himself with others, himself with two young girls, a dog, a woman with the
two young girls, the woman on her own, two other women, a man with an older
lady and a few others. My mind got to thinking about who these people could be,
I gave them names and provided them each with a role they played in his life
then resolved to pay it no further mind. I was getting bored and mind restless
so I walked back to the bed and lay back down when all of a sudden I heard a
key turn in the door, I got up and stared impatiently to see who it would be.
The key was yanked out the key hole and the door knob turned slowly and then
the door flung open and there he was in all his awkward, sophisticated self. He
smiled and I smiled back.
