IF WALLS COULD TALK

I close my apartment door and lock it, wheeling my final trolly of packed boxes down the hallway over to the elevator situated next to apartment 300. I was in 308.

Apartment 307: Old hag bitch. I knew within the first ten minutes of meeting her for the first time, that it was clear why she was divorced for 40 years and never remarried, and why her adult children all live 5 states away from her. 80 years old, yet so incredibly opinionated that she had the audacity to tell me not to bother going after Adam from Building 1, because I was not his type anyway, and she knew that because she was just oh-so incredibly close with him and he just oh-so adored her. Right, a 35-year-old sex machine who was using this apartment building like a live speed-dating experiment, whose good looks resembled Chris Pratt in his weight-loss era, was certainly talking your 80-year-old ear off every chance he had. She told me in that first conversation we had, that, she hates all of the girls who live in our apartment, that they are all bitches, and that when she sees them dress provocatively out of desperation for the boys around here who don’t even like any of them, she feels sorry for them. Oh, and that, she finally put her foot down and told an overweight woman at the pool once, that she needed to go upstairs and change into a more appropriate bathing suit that covers her up better. That was literally the only conversation I ever allowed her to have with me. She was a delusional witch whom I hope has since been gone. Hey, I did not say gone in what way! That could mean anywhere- gone from this apartment complex, gone mentally, or, sure gone from Earth. Gone. I want to knock on her door and ask her what she even did in her spare time besides promote insecurities in the young women she came across?

Apartment 306: I fell in love with this man. He lived two doors down from me. When we met for the first time, it was in the stairwell, and he asked if I wanted to let our dogs play together. I could not help but notice he was wearing a military uniform. Each time we ran into each other, we would stop and share just a little bit more about ourselves. He was right around my age, but already divorced, so, single. I was so distracted by how handsome he was that I hardly remember the first conversation we ever had while our dogs played in that big front yard. He told me my name was cute in the first conversation we ever had. A girl would never forget a unique compliment like that. I actually do also remember reading his last name on his uniform and cracking a joke in that conversation. Does everyone’s uniform come with an adjective? His last name is Better. The fourth time I ran into him, we went for a walk on the beach with our dogs. He opened my car door to his truck that we naturally walked towards instead of my car. We both chewed gum when I had never seen him chew it before. Neither did I. He gave me his flip flops to wear when my shoes could not be worn with sandy feet. I made a necklace out of the most beautiful shell I found that afternoon on the beach with him. One time he cooked me dinner. Another time he gave me his apartment keys so I could go check on his cat when he was away on a trip. Other times, we would go night swimming and play all sorts of games. When I confided in him about my own dating struggles, he would remind me that nobody was worth my tears, and that he would fight whoever necessary. That sentiment made me feel connected to him. The last time we would go to the beach, it would not feel the same. I was quite sad when he encouraged me to actually chase my dreams that are in this new city I’m off to. I want to knock on his door and ask him why he never kissed me, and why he was willing to see me leave.

Apartment 305: She was a tall, masculine, buff, tattooed, delicious-smelling lesbian. She was a firefighter, dating a stripper. How about that? Her girlfriend was particularly rude to me once at the pool. The same pool where I had to watch them dry hump each other on the lounge chair when I was night swimming waiting for my neighbor in apartment 306 to join me. I suspect the girlfriend was referring to me when once during a day-time party at the pool she said “the little neighbor right across the hallway.” My neighbor, lesbian firefighter, ceased any friendliness and hospitality she showed me when I first moved in. It was quite unfortunate actually. I remember overhearing her tell her girlfriend that she doesn’t even talk to me or care to talk to me. I will never forget that and the tone it was said it. I found so much hurt in it, because I never did anything to her for her to dismiss me as a person to please someone else. I didn’t even know them, but they sure knew not to like me, for the sake of their relationship. And by the way, firefighters cooking smelled horrible! I want to knock on her door and ask her, if she only became a bitch to me so that her girlfriend would not be a bitch to her.

Apartment 304: I never met this neighbor of mine. I never heard a sound. Whoever lived here was never seen coming or going. Unseen in the staircase, elevator, hallway, or on their balcony. The balcony to this apartment had no furniture. This man, or woman, or couple, or family, or student in college, or divorced dad of four kids, or single woman who never ended up having kids, would however, receive packages on a weekly basis, but I never brought myself to walking up to one of the boxes and reading the name of the tenant. The old American flag draped over their balcony had bled all of its red white and blue to death. I reckon that flag had been flying over that balcony for decades. I never even heard noise through their front door. No television, no music, no stovetop fan running, no sex noises. Yet, those weekly packages would be gone the same day they delivered. God bless this neighbor.

Apartment 303: The classic divorced-dad living alone again for the first time in 30 years, while his ex-wife is somewhere else on the map with her new younger boyfriend, s his kids are all in college. He was a nice man. We got along well because of politics and shared interests, but he reminded me so much of my uncle who was divorced and beginning to lean towards desperate in life. It’s not that that had any effect on my life, but being his neighbor, and seeing him often, he talked to me, a lot and asked me often about what I was catching in the river. A lot about personal matters. Not that I didn’t want to, because he was easy to talk to, but sometimes in our conversations I wondered what the point was in him stopping to talk to me so much and getting to know me when he is my father’s age. When he told me about a young lady from work whom he had taken out on a date, who was not even in college yet, I knew to then start keeping distance. Or perhaps I did not have to, because at twenty-six, maybe I was too old for him anyway. I want to knock on his door and ask him if he wants to re-marry again and if so, if he plans to marry a woman his own age.

Apartment 302: The loveliest and most beautiful young girl at this apartment, who I got along with so well. She began dating Adam from Building 1, who by the way, was so incredibly kind. This young girl and I were certainly of the younger, if not the youngest, people living in this apartment. We were both relatively fresh out of college, beginning careers, still immature, and could use a little slap of seriousness in our faces. We related so much on so many things, from dating, or balancing work and personal life, to social media trends, that, we could not help but turn running-into-each-other, to, hey-lets-let-the-dogs-play-on-the-front-lawn-while-we-chit-chat-for-longer-than-expected! Maybe it was best that we never tried to become friends beyond our apartment. Maybe that boundary of knowing we were neighbors above all else, prevented us from knowing too much about enough to be able to turn into the catty girls that we gossiped about from our apartment. When we were both invited to an apartment party once. I went, and she chickened out. I told her all about it, secretly wishing she would have come. I wanted a nice friend. Part of why I’m leaving this city is because I never did seem to connect with other women on a personal level the way I did with this neighbor in 302. She was so kind and fun to talk to, and our dogs loved one another. I wonder if her and Adam will get married one day. I want to knock on her door and ask her why she never agreed to hang out with me any time I asked her.

Apartment 301: Okay now, this is a neighbor who I had never seen other than on his balcony one time. That one time was when I was walking my dog at 1:30 in the morning on a Friday night, or early Saturday morning if you’re technical, after getting home from line dancing. I heard a distinct fart. It was loud. I looked around and up, and saw him sitting on his chair on his balcony. He was naturally the only person who could have farted in that very moment. I hurried around the corner of the building with my dog, who also looked up and began barking to find the source of the strange sound, so as not to embarrass him by my presence. I could understand why he did not think someone would be outside at 1:30 AM anyway. Definitely not at this apartment at least, besides me, that one fateful time. Perhaps he did see me, and that was why he proceeded to avoid me at all costs for the year to come. I never saw him again. Maybe he was so embarrassed that someone heard him fart and saw that it was him, that he picked up and moved to a new city, got a new job, changed his identity, and started all over out of fear he would never recover from the embarrassment. I will naturally forever look at him differently, if I were to ever see him again. I want to knock on his door and ask him if he remembers what happened? We all remember when someone farts where they’re not supposed to.

Apartment 300: I’ve got nothing. I want to knock on this door and find out if anyone even lives here.

Once I arrive at the elevator, I feel bittersweet. There were still so many questions unanswered, and so many things left unsaid between me and my neighbors. I think I wanted at least some of the answers to these questions, to know if I was making the right decision by leaving and moving to a new city and state. I reached a point where this city felt like a dead-end that I was trying to continue paving a way for with my bare hands. What I never found here was love, or friendship, or a job that I was happy with, or hobbies to sustain my plenty of free time. Somehow, each of my neighbors seemed to have a combination of these things, and it felt like they were being paraded around me. I know I was responsible for my own happiness, but there were opportunities right underneath my nose here. There was the potential for love, for companionship, for friendship.

Sometimes when the world is stacked against someone, running away looks like the easiest option for that person to have picked. But the truth is, running away is a difficult decision. The money spent beyond your last paycheck from the job you quit, to break your lease early so you can leave. The time and effort now being taken to look for a new, stable career in an absolutely horrific job market. The courage to move to a new city where you don’t yet know anyone and otherwise would need to rely on established connections to cheat the social system. The choice to begin healing mentally from the traumas of rejections from life, rather than sulking in lonely misery. The willpower to try again. The acceptance that you are not where you want to be in life. The acceptance that some people who have hurt you, are doing better than you, are living the life you wanted, have the things you want. To live with these thoughts and make these decisions is anything but easy.

Anik Nalbandian is a writer based in Charleston, South Carolina. She graduated with her B.A. in English from The George Washington University in 2020 and received her M.A. in English from Wake Forest University in 2022. She is currently a first-year M.F.A Creative Writing student at The College of Charleston. She also works as an Editorial Assistant for swamp pink magazine, where she most recently published an interview with author Afabwaje Kurian. She enjoys writing satirical short stories inspired by people she has met over the years, and is currently working on this short story collection in her Creative Writing program.