Mind the Gap

Working on the Underground was literally like dying. Travelling down tunnels towards bright lights for hours and then going home to bed. I didn’t even have suicide as an escape. The ‘utopia’ above ground offered me nothing; I didn’t care for the neon signs advertising massages and live nudes. I wasn’t fond of jazz clubs or wine bars or pubs, as drowning my sorrows in drink only made me late for work. I’d spend most nights holed up in my flat, the walls draped with newspaper to save the hassle of dealing with cashiers and superstores. My solitary armchair was dragged up the stairs by the last occupant, still stained with the remnants of whatever they used it for. Club soda and salt would probably pull up deep-rooted stains from inside the upholstery.
All that connected me to the world around was the ventilation shaft running down the outside wall. It was hard to try and pinpoint where the sounds came from but I was sure of the smells that rose from downstairs. Laughter would follow rich cooking, all succeeded by popular music and the clip-clop of heels on wood. Occasionally a mobile phone would ring out over toasters and burnt bread in the mornings, before they locked their front door and all fell silent until five o’clock. Upstairs sent me clicks and booms between midday and midnight but always became quiet after one in the morning, except the occasional return of clicks and booms between four a.m. and sunrise.
This evening I was particularly hungry but poor too, after three eight-hour shifts back-to-back and the paycheque lost at the Post Office. I went over to my bedside cabinet from the lounge, opened the drawer and scooped the change from the bottom. £3.94. It wouldn’t afford much from the Waitrose at the end of the road, so I left the flat and crossed the street to Erbert’s Fishery.
Dodging the traffic was dangerous due to my visual impairment, a condition I hadn’t been diagnosed with at the time. They called it ‘peripheral vision loss’ at the surgery but all I knew was that distances were almost incalculable; my entire view became cylindrical and this caused me great distress. It wasn’t a constant thing; it only seemed to settle in when I least needed it, usually agitated by venturing outdoors or into wide spaces. It was like living inside an American wing-mirror: Objects may seem closer than they appear.
I pushed the door of the chip shop open carefully, making sure not to slam it behind me. Standing near the chairs opposite the fryers, I looked towards the end of the shop and saw my ex-girlfriend Sara. There was so much I wanted to say to her still, views I had to air and reasons to be expressed, but I wasn’t in the mood, not being this rundown. Praying she might come over and talk to me, I thought I saw her wave or gesture towards me. My eyesight was pretty bad and the heat of the shop was giving me a migraine, which made me squint and only served to make my vision worse.
The crisp crackling of the fryers was gaining amplitude, the vapours eviscerating my mind and making it hard to concentrate. I heard her in my head, greeting me Hello and asking how my day was. But this was all hope; it had ended so badly, why would she address me now? The man behind the counter was shouting at me now so I rubbed my eyes and left the shop. I crashed through the door of my flat, slammed it shut and collapsed on the armchair.
I picked up a half-empty glass of water from the table beside me and swallowed it whole, placing it down again. The tunnel vision was fading now, objects were becoming closer and the walls of my lounge seemed to settle back to their usual place. Picking up my phone from next to the glass, I saw the screen flashing a new message out. It was from Sara.

why did you ignore me in the shop just? i was standing right in front of you but you totally blanked me. don’t expect this to work now you intolerable bastard. have a nice life.

Sometimes, when boarding the first train of a shift, I’ll shut all my senses off and pray for a fall, making sure not to mind the gap.