The Whore On The Third Floor – Part 1

The Whore on the third floor, 6lack free

I’ve heard the whispers.

The whore on the third floor.

That’s what my neighbors call me. Forgive my neighbors for their lack of creativity. I mean. Really. And don’t worry that I’ll be offended if you called me that either. I’ve earned it. I have more sex than my womanhood permits me to. So I’m a whore.

I sometimes introduce myself by this nickname and it earns me strange stares. As expected, right? People don’t know where to look when unabashedly faced with the truth is what I’ve learned.

So let me tell you about yesterday. It was a Saturday. I had slept for most of the day and woke up famished. I decided to go to the restaurant on the ground floor to buy some food. My day gained significance as soon as I walked into the restaurant.

Because there he sat. At the corner of the small restaurant. Facing the door. Having a meal. A burger and some juice in a glass. Looking beautiful. His was the first face that I saw. I knew I’d never seen that face around our neighborhood before. You never see a face like that and forget it. I had planned to get my fries and chicken to go, but was I going to do that now? I didn’t think so. Not when an unfamiliar beautiful face was begging for an acquaintance.

Having got my food from the counter, I walked towards him and did the “Do you mind?” thing as I pointed to the empty seat opposite him. His mouth was full so he nodded with an apologetic wave of the hand.

“Thank you.” I sat down and feeling particularly lazy to go across the room to wash my hands in the sink, I decided that today, I was going to use my fork and knife to eat my chicken. I think I’m sometimes a sucker for painful experiences.

“You sure about that?” He asked, food finally chewed and swallowed.

“No.” Smile.

“You’re new here aren’t you?” I asked as I sprinkled salt and vinegar on my food.

“Yes. I moved in yesterday.”

“Well, since you allowed me to sit with you, I think I’m now obligated to tell you everything there is to know about this neighborhood. That man you see at the counter over there, the one who took your cash when you were buying food, his name is Mato. He co-owns this place with his twin brother Mwangi. The other guy who gave you your food, that’s Simon. The chemist next door is not opened 24 hours as the sign at the entrance purports. It is owned by Charles and his wife, Sue.”

My food tasted good. Only needed more chili.

“You like your food that hot, huh?”

“Yeah. It’s an addiction I’m not willing to tame.” Chew. Swallow.

“Hmm. The caretaker is a dick. We get water consistently when Ndakaini dam is overflowing and the cartels go overseas for holiday. Smile. There’s a guy on the second floor who will wake you up every morning as he revs his noisy car for like fifteen minutes. This would be bearable if he didn’t play music at high volume as well. Which floor are you on by the way?”

“First floor.”

“Yep. Expect to be woken up by Tim all right. Get ready to listen to some Noora Noor every morning.”

“At least he has good taste in music.”

“That’s what I said.” Chew. Chew. Chew.

“But if it bothers you guys, can’t someone ask him to keep it down?”

Swallow. “Do you want to give it a try?”

“Why do I feel like you’re setting me up for failure, though?”

“Because I am.”

“I thought we were becoming friends.”

“Precisely.” Smile. He finished eating and started nursing the glass of orange juice.

“Tuesday and Friday are garbage collection days, so have your garbage out by 8:00 AM. But I guess the caretaker already told you that?” I said as I cut into my chicken and put a sizeable chunk in my mouth.

“He didn’t actually.”

“Told you he’s a dickhead.”

“Dick.”

“Sorry?”

“You said he’s a dick. Not a dickhead.” Smile.

My plate was approaching empty as my stomach geared towards full.

As we walked up the stairs, him to his apartment on the first floor and me to mine on the third floor, he thanked me for taking the time to acquaint him with the building. I told him not to mention it.

He stopped on the first floor and extended his hand.

“I’m Philip, by the way.”

“I’m Brenda. But you can call me the whore on the third floor. Everyone else does.”

People don’t know where to look when faced with truth.

I continued up the stairs. I think Philip’s feet were glued to the ground because I didn’t hear him move as I went up.

Smile.

To be continued.

Image Credit.

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6 thoughts on “The Whore On The Third Floor – Part 1

  1. Hahahahahaha… that’s a crazy introduction. The truth is always hard to hear…good luck with this guy, he may just cure your wayward ways. I hope thats what happens in part 2. Fingers crossed. Sucker for happy ending 🙂

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