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Neighbors
by: Arthur Thompson They were not normal—this was a well known fact. Through a tiny slit in the brick wall, Rakhel watched the two strange men. She had been sent out to the back garden by her mother to collect the drying laundry before Shabbat. But now, she was distracted, drawn in by the peals of laughter of her neighbours. Just what are they doing? The slit in the wall was too small and the men too big. She needed a better vantage point. After countless hours of collective observation, the Levy children had recently concluded that the two men who occupied number 10 Erumsnood Road should be categorized as neighbours of the friendly, maybe even docile, type. (Such calculations were made by tallying the number of stray balls returned, compounded by the time when the two men let Rakhel and her brothers have their leftover garden party balloons). On one summer evening, Rakhel glimpsed the two men holding hands. She reported it back to her mother over dinner, to which her mother adjusted her wig and clucked “they must be very good friends.” Rakhel’s father coughed, causing the candles to flicker, and told her to mind her own business. She nodded to show she understood what her parents meant—sometimes brothers are best left alone. Now Rakhel had propped herself on some old apple crates and began peeping over the wall, her head moving up and down in staccato. Peek by peek she was able to get a better idea of what her neighbours were up to—glasses, towels, fruit, coffee, napkins, brushes, and paint. They’re making pictures? Docile neighbours, indeed. She rested her chin bravely on top of the wall. Yes, the grown men were painting (stuff only little kids do) with hardly any clothes on—only shorts, shirts, and socks! One man was bald. And the other had only a small blonde patch left. They teased each other, their laughter as colourful as the paint on their brushes. Rakhel was fascinated, a soft daze, like warm bread, slowly enveloped her. “Hello, again.” “What’s your name?” Thirty seconds passed before Rakhel realized that the men had started speaking to her. The warm-bread-feeling was so pleasant that she didn’t even mind being discovered. She couldn’t understand what the men were babbling about anyway. She only knew a few words in English. Instead, she ignored them by staring at their pictures (weeds and a ginger cat). Seeing that she could not be coaxed into small talk, the men returned to painting. Eventually, rain came, which ruined Rakhel’s spectacle, soaked the freshly dried clothes, and spoiled her mother’s mood. As Rakhel heaved the heap of sopping laundry up the steps and into the house, she wondered whether she’d grow up to be like her neighbours. |
Always a daydreamer, Arthur has been imagining short stories from a very young age. However, it is only until now that he has thought to write any of them down. Originally from Los Angeles, he currently resides in London where he completed his undergraduate degree in Chinese and linguistics. His vices include coffee, books, analogue photography, and chocolate mints. Twitter @lookingtowrite
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