He is leaning on someone’s letterbox when she opens her gate to walk past him. Cross-legged and smoking, his gaze penetrates.
Her voice is breezy and carefree. ‘Just moved in? Welcome!’
His half-closed eyes survey her. With a strong Middle Eastern accent, he replies: ‘I’ve seen you already; your unit is in front of mine’.
She knows this; it has perturbed her that his kitchen window overlooks her back courtyard.
‘You walk past with your nose in the air, like a queen,’ he says.
Nonplussed, she asks: ‘Where are you from?’
‘Egypt. I’m an Arab.’ He sounds proud.
She feels trapped, awkward. ‘I love Egyptian food,’ she responds.
‘Oh? Like what?’
‘Falafels, date cakes.’ She pours out whatever comes into her head. ‘Must keep moving.’ He watches as she heads for the local shops.
The next morning she opens her door to a tray of date cakes, and a tub of falafels. All delicious. Should she include a note of appreciation when returning tray and tub?
Drop-offs keep coming. He starts knocking on her door. Rude to ignore him?
When her friend Joe leaves after each weekend, the Egyptian is back on her doorstep, waiting. Commenting begins on her smile, her beautiful eyes.
‘Stop this nonsense, Ahmed! I have a boyfriend.’
‘So what?’ His response is dismissive.
She ignores the door knocks.
————
Through the growing hell of his rages, being followed, watched from every angle of her unit, others blame her.
‘Couldn’t you see he was grooming you?’
‘Why were you so friendly?’
‘Some men expect a woman to comply; didn’t you know that? Nothing like their fury if you don’t!’
The sergeant who organised her intervention order had said to her: ‘Men like that don’t change. I’d move if I were you.’
Seven years later, after stubbornly holding her ground, she packs.
In her delightful new home she finally breathes, relaxes, sleeps once more.
Burnside Writers Group 