the neighbors
I always tried to talk our neighbors, no matter where we lived. I was met with side glances, faces pretending they had not heard my hello, or just a blank stare as if I was a ghost in the hallway with a bag of groceries digging in his pockets for the house keys. They shuffled through common spaces and stairwells in rough old robes, smoking cigarettes by windows painted shut, tapping ashes into empty cans of peas, a confetti of gray and soot painted around them.
They said nothing.
Here, we have a tiny balcony. You can fit two folding chairs and a miniature folding table there, and sit with your knees touching. Outside, the birds sing louder. The boys from down the street kick a soccer ball around, or run back and forth with toy pistols. Their mother carries an infant, up and down the block singing quietly to her as it wails in the afternoon sun. I nod to them as I pass, but they are skittish, with those same side eyes but maybe a mumbled hello.
And then, a few weeks ago a woman appeared on the next balcony. All at once I heard N speaking English with her and I trotted out, barefoot and curious. We talked from balcony to balcony for a good half hour, trading odd anecdotes and scraps of details about the lives that lead us all here, roads converging on this hushed dead-end street where the mourning doves come to rest. She is from Montana, and rides horses. She likes to cook, and her children are grown. Our neighbor’s dinner guest arrived and we ducked back inside, odd smiles on our faces, strangely satisfied to have had an actual conversation.
I have a habit of ducking my head out onto the balcony at odd moments, hoping to see her again, to continue where we left off.