Smoke and seagulls
Sometimes you just need to accept things and move onwards. But for Valerie it’s harder than it seems, when everything reminds her of her past.
The smoke from the downstairs neighbours was going to get someone killed, Valerie was certain. Whether it was her, coughing and spluttering, or the smoker withering like an abandoned flower arrangement, she wasn’t sure yet. As it curled up past the spindly chair on the balcony and drifted away into an azure sky, she wondered if she should go down and talk to them about it. Building rules. Just being neighbourly. As she thought about it, crimson nails tapped on the railing - one was chipped, snapped off near the base, but she didn’t have the energy to get it fixed. Didn’t really matter, anyway.
She could smell it, still. That lingering bitter stench that clung to everything, that never really came out no matter how many years it had been. Or maybe it had only been weeks.
Valerie tossed a chip over the side of the balcony; watched the seagulls squawk and squabble over it as they plunged towards the ground in a clatter of wings and greedy beaks. They were hungry, or maybe just desperate, blinded by their own single-mindedness. It was a distraction, she supposed. Like seeing that hunger in the mirror, or seeing it in his eyes. It looked so bright from a distance. Desirable. That was the word everyone used. But under the shine were always the eyes of a starving wolf, and she could still feel her aching ribs tight beneath skin, the burn of his lips as he kissed her - ate her, fierce and wanting and always, always hungry. One of the seagulls down below was posturing, inflated with bravado and its new chippy prize. The smell of smoke made the scene seem more familiar than it had any right to be, a strange deja vu sensation made dizzying by distance.
There was movement downstairs. Someone on the balcony, crammed into the three by five space some bureaucrat had decided was just enough space for the unwashed masses to relax in, but not enough that they might get ideas. A thick, muscled arm leaned over the edge, framed by another billow of smoke. Thin wailing from inside - she wanted to go downstairs and tell him maybe he shouldn’t smoke when there was a baby in the house. It wasn’t healthy. But it was astonishing how the smell brought back other sensations, and so she picked at her chipped nails and thought about what she was going to have for dinner. She wasn’t good at confrontation, anyway.
There was an empty bottle on the balcony with her, and a half-eaten packet of crisps. She’d only eaten quarter of it; the gulls liked them, too. The bottle might have been fuller earlier - half-full, or half-empty or just a misty memory - but now it was drained and vacant. The label was something she hated, but she’d drunk it anyway, seagull-desperate in her thirst. As she reached out, the crackle of the bag brought attention back to her, and she tossed a few more crumbs towards the hungry eyes. Would they attack her if she fed them too much? Wasn’t that why you shouldn’t encourage them? If she only fed them sometimes, though, learning from mistakes well made and etched deep, perhaps it would stay like this forever. Just Valerie, the smell of cigarettes dying a final kamikaze death, and hungry seagulls looking for scraps on the periphery.
The big seagull was still fluffed up on the asphalt, defending its spoils with vigour. She watched as it snapped at a smaller bird, chased it away with wings high and beak wide open. A second, even smaller gull nipped in while its back was turned and stole a chip - the bigger one didn’t seem to notice when it turned back to gloat over its hoard. It wasn’t hungry, it seemed, but it still squabbled and fought for every scrap because it wanted.
Below, the baby’s shrill warble took on a new urgency, and the arm pulled back out of sight. A final billow of smoke, acrid smell gusting past Valerie’s face and stinging her eyes, and the cigarette was tossed over the edge. For a moment she watched it fall, and the seagull seemed to follow her gaze. The orange tip was oddly alluring in that way dangerous things can be, and if she’d been close enough Valerie might have tried to catch it, acting on old impulses. But it was falling now, and Valerie tossed the rest of the chips over to fall with it. She turned and walked inside, making plans for dinner and to buy something she enjoyed drinking, for once. Below, the big seagull rose on clumsy wings, greed in every wingbeat, but Valerie didn’t care to stay and watch to see what it would catch.
