Narrative writing - The Loft

 

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.