It’s been getting worse.
Last night he couldn’t sleep and tonight it’s happening again. His mind conjures shortcomings and failures. The message is clear: he’s too old, he’s missed his chance. There was this 20-year-old in the news, 20 for god sake. He’s 40 and she’s soaring above him. Her future is bright. He’s washed up, finished. If you’re not leading in your field by 40, you might as well just die. He should do everyone a favour and disappear. People don’t want to be bothered by his existence.
Heart pounding, a dark cloud in his chest, he gets up in search of something. Anything, other than the torment of trying to sleep.
The miniscule flat asserts its diminutiveness. He makes a circuit, turning on lights as he goes. Along the hall, first door bathroom, second door open-plan kitchen. That’s all of it, his home, his world, his universe.
He returns to the bedroom. He hovers in the door. The journey is so short he hasn’t even stretched his legs. The room is so small that there’s only enough space for the bed. When he wants to open the window, he has to crab along the bottom of the bed. He doesn’t want to open the window.
He looks at the bed. At least there’s no-one else to disturb with his insomnia. He considers getting a single bed to free up some space.
He sits on the bed. He’s too old, he’s missed his –
Nope, sitting is no good. He stands. He turns off the bedroom light. He makes a circuit turning off lights as he goes. Along the hall, first door bathroom, second door open-plan kitchen. He goes into the kitchen / living room. Cosy is what the estate agent called it.
He hasn’t done much to personalise the space. It’s a rental, why bother? There is one thing of his. One precious object. His electric piano. To fit it into the cosy space, he doesn’t have a table.
He eats at the kitchen counter. He remembers going in search of a tall chair. He went to a furniture shop. It seemed to be full of huge sofas. He asked a sales assistant, “Shaz” according to their nametag, where he could find high chairs. Shaz suggested the baby section in John Lewis. He thought Shaz was making fun of him.
He went to John Lewis. He didn’t ask for help. He spent an hour wandering around. Eventually he found what he was looking for. It’s called a breakfast chair. What a stupid name. He bought the cheapest one he could find. It’s ugly and he hates it.
But there is space for his electric piano. His heart is still pounding. There is still a dark cloud in his chest.
He’s too old, he’s missed his –
He sits at the piano. The headphones are already plugged in. He doesn’t want to wake the neighbours. He turns it on. He begins to poke at the keys. He adjusts where he’s sitting. Middle C in front of his belly button.
He straightens his back. He plays a scale. He plays another scale. He begins the slow movement of a Mozart sonata he’s memorised. He lets his body to coax the music out of the instrument. He takes deep breaths.