Monday

She opens the front door and stands for a second, framed against her battered door in the morning light. She swings her satchel over her shoulder, left to right; pats her pockets, once, twice: phone, keys and wallet I assume. She steps neatly over the sill, left foot first, then right and pulls the door closed behind her, hard as she can, white-knuckled. She leans slowly back, pushes her palms against the door to check the lock, then straightens. Her fingers drag through her still-damp hair, snagging errant knots that have escaped the nagging of her brush.

She takes the steps down from her door two at a time and stops to jump two footed from the lowest step, flexing her knees and arching her spine as she straightens, yawning into the chill morning. A spark of green catches in her eye, she pivots and bends, one-legged, to tease the tiny sprouting leaves out of a crack in her steps. They come out cleanly, soil clinging to bone white roots. She shrugs and lifts the bin lid, tosses it in and drops the lid, wincing at the thud that echoes out, reflected off lonely terraced bricks.

She hits the pavement striding, shoulders back, head held high and pats her pockets once more as she walks. She passes number fourteen, where geraniums protrude from every available patch of ground, pots sprouting from the concrete. Number sixteen she passes without a sideways glance, but she still notices the twitching of the upstairs curtain: does Mr Traymer never sleep? He may just sit by the window all day, dressing-gown clad, waiting to catch a glimpse of her as she walks by.

As she passes number eighteen, she slows her pace and he falls out of the front door, flashing a glimpse of stagnant beer bottles and unwashed laundry. A bachelor pad. He slouches down his steps in low slung jeans, catches her outflung fingers and slides off down the street, planting a peck on her cheek. She digs her heels in and points at his front door, hanging open. He grimaces, shrugs his shoulders and lopes back up the steps. Door closed, another peck, on the lips this time and off they go down the road towards the bus stop, hand in hand.

Tuesday

She opens the front door and stands for a second, arching her spine and stretching, yawning into the damp morning. She leans on the door frame , picking absent mindedly at the peeling paint with one hand and swinging her satchel over her shoulder, left to right. She pats her pockets, once, twice: phone keys and wallet. She peers around the door frame and then steps over the sill, left foot first then right, catching her toes on the doorstep, lips framing curses.

She pulls the door closed behind her, hard as she can, white-knuckled. She leans sharply back, slaps her palms against the door to check the lock, then straightens. Her fingers drag through dry flyaway hair, snagging errant knots that have escaped the constant nagging of her brush. She takes the steps from her door gingerly, one at a time, always left foot first but stops, to jump two-footed from the bottom step, flexing her knees to land, poised. She bends to rub scattered soil back into the cracks between her steps, crouching, brushing loose earth off her fingers.

She hits the pavement softly, shoulders back. Then pivots to trot back up the steps on dainty feet and push the door to check the lock again. This time, she hits the pavement striding, shoulders, back, head held high and pats her pockets once more as she walks. The geraniums of number fourteen seem wrongly bright against the dull sky of an English summer, grey as the curtains that twitch in Mr. Traymer's window, flashing white, aging skin.

She slows, almost to a stop, outside number eighteen and he falls out of the front door, flashing a glimpse of last night's pizza boxes and unwashed laundry. A bachelor pad. He slouches down his steps, black underwear standing out between low slung jeans and too short t-shirt. He slides off down the street, her fingers in his hand. She wriggles free, mouths at him and points to his front door, still hanging open like his jaw. He grimaces, shrugs his shoulders and lopes back up the steps. Door closed, off they go, down the road towards the bus stop, side by side.

Wednesday

She opens the front door and stands for a second, stretching out a palm into the wind and rain. Tongue between her teeth, she counts the raindrops, turns her palm to spread the moisture, sighs and stretches in the doorway. She swings her satchel over her shoulder, left to right and pats her pockets, once, twice: phone, keys and wallet. An umbrella sneaks around the doorway into her hand, she wrestles it up, flimsy metal spines browbeaten in the wind and steps over the sill, left foot first then right, lips framing curses.

Umbrella held in the crook of her arm, she pulls the door closed behind her, hard as she can, white knuckled. She collapses back, pats her palms against the door to check the lock, then levers herself upright again. One hand frets a lock of hair, irretrievably knotted, estranged from her brush for the moment. She takes the steps from her front door slowly, two at a time, left foot first, falling from one to another until, leaden-footed she drops from the bottom step onto the pavement.

She creeps along the pavement, shoulders hunched, head striving to remain level, mocked by the geraniums next door that cackle at a glum face. No curtain twitch this morning, Mr. Traymer's back must be giving him trouble, still in bed he's dreaming of who knows what. Her face? She turns and drags her feet back along the pavement, easing up her steps to push again in vain against the front door. It's locked, the way it always is. She forces her shoulders back, head up and walks off down the street.

She passes number eighteen at a stroll, just as he falls out of the front door, arms full of beer cans and pizza boxes. He flips his bin lid, chucks them and and pulls his front door shut. He wipes his hands on trendy combat trousers, one, then the other and catches her up, on long legs. She crosses her arms, one over the other, umbrella caught between the two, and shivers in the chill of a cold greyEnglish summer morning. They amble along towards the bus stop, side by side, in silence.

Thursday

She opens the front door to punch of muggy heat that leaves her breathless for a second, standing clutching the door frame. Hands on hips, she draws in breath, holds taut stomach muscles as long as she dares and then exhales. Low and long she empties her lungs, breathing by choice, as slow as she can manage. She swings her satchel over her shoulder, left to right and pats her pockets, once, twice: phone, keys and wallet. She wrestles her body out of the doorway, browbeaten by the heat and steps over the sill, left foot first, then right.

She pulls the door closed behind her, hard as she can, white knuckled and stands tall, poking at the door with rigid fingers to check the lock. She drags her fingers through towel-dry hair, searching for the knots her brush has given up on now. She stretches, long and slow, hovering in the doorway as long as she dares. She takes the steps from her front door slowly, one at a time, left foot first, carefully stepping from one to another, jumping on flexed knees onto the pavement from the bottom step.

She paces along the pavement, shoulders back, head held high, ignores the cheerful greetings of the geraniums peering anxiously at her from number fourteen and does not notice the curtain twitching of Mr. Traymer's recovered back. She pauses outside number eighteen. Pizza boxes protrude from the wheelie bin. The windows are dark and silent, curtains drawn.

She climbs the steps, slowly, one at a time. Presses hard against the doorbell. It rings into emptiness. She stands and waits, counting heartbeats. She feels the upstairs curtains twitch but the house remains silent, cold and dark. A handful of scattered heartbeats longer and she trudges back down the steps, one by one, and down the road towards the bus stop. Alone.

Friday

She opens the front door, stands stock still on the door step and breathes in cool fresh air, storm-cleared. She swings her satchel over her shoulder, left to right and pats her pockets once: phone, keys and wallet. She steps over the sill and charges down the steps, two at a time. She hits the ground striding, straight across the road. Towards me.

I see her knock at my door, three times. I answer tentatively and sign that I can read her lips but not her voice and cannot hear my own vocal fumblings. She does not understand but lets me know in no uncertain terms that she has seen me watching her and the geraniums and Mr. Traymer. She does not mind, she says, but thinks that I should introduce myself, it's only polite after all.

I sign away, try to ask her whether she would like a cup of tea. She does not understand, but she comes inside anyway, to talk to me.