I Saw Her Standing There ➵ Kit Connor

2 | What I Mean

THE NEXT MORNING when I stepped onto my balcony, I noticed the woman was already there.

She had a coffee mug in her hand, but her hair was no longer in a towel and she wasn't wearing a robe. If I hadn't known she was my neighbour, I wouldn't have recognised her. She had on a crimson dress, thick, round earrings hanging off her ears, and a bright red lipstick that was smudged on the edge of her mug. Her white boots were tapping against the balcony floor.

If she'd noticed me step outside, she didn't show any signs of it. Her eyes were focused on the garden below.

"Morning," I said.

She didn't respond.

Instead, she drank the rest of her coffee in a ludicrous gulp, heading back inside her flat. The glass door shut behind her loudly, echoing out into the brisk morning air.

"Fine," I mumbled to myself. "Have it your way, then."

Making friends with my neighbours was never such a big priority for me—although it seemed to have been my parent's second job—and I wasn't keen on making friends with her. It was mindboggling how offended she became over such a small comment. Not everyone has to like The Beatles, and, in my opinion, they weren't good enough to warrant such extremities.

Heading back inside, I grabbed my coat and made my way for the door. I had to leave an hour earlier than necessary, because showing up late to my interview would be unprofessional, and my vague knowledge of the Metro would do nothing but hinder me. 

Brooklyn was beautiful in the morning. The leaves were starting to turn red and orange, falling onto the browning grass near my feet. Men in suits were swinging their briefcases as they walked and women were clutching their newspapers tightly. It was an interesting contrast from the London environment; no one in their right mind would be up this early, and certainly not powering their way to work. America was busy. It made me feel like I was part of something great, or at least part of a well-oiled machine.

The Brooklyn Editorial resided in a building on the corner of Hicks Street, a red-brick confine with green rims on the edges. A man was pacing outside, a cigarette dangling from his hands and a book in the other, but he merely glanced my way as I passed by.

"Oh, Mr. Connor!"

I had barely stepped into the building, when a woman came barrelling towards me in excitement. Her accent was thick, almost too New York, and her arms were stretched out to give me a hug.

"Susan Specks," she said, squeezing me tightly. "We're so glad to have you here."

I smiled. "Charmed."

"How's Brooklyn for you?"

"Great. Lovely." The expression on my face hid my slight bitterness. "There's certainly some wonderful people here."

Susan, who's spectacles balanced on the very tip of her nose, waved me over towards the back of the room. People were clacking away on typewriters, talking on phones, and lighting smokes in the corner. I followed the woman into her office, which was located at the very end of the open-space.

She shut the door, gesturing for me to sit in one of her chairs.

"From what I understand, you're quite popular over in England?" She made her way to her desk. "Your agent was saying you're a regular celebrity."

I laughed. "I guess you could say that."

"Well, I think it's wonderful you decided to move to the States. It certainly will help with your exposure, and I'm honoured our magazine will be able to help."