Category:

Father excelled at many things. Some said he was a polymath. But out of his many interests, it was astronomy that I chose to make my own. The same tool I now use to detach myself from the mundane reality of my life and to distract myself when I feel I'm tipping into melancholia. My telescope is nothing like Father's. His was archaic in comparison. Mine is of a very high specification and expensive—paid for with my redundancy money—which I keep among the plants on my roof. Late at night, when I've finished my tasks, I like to look at the stars and the planets and the occasional meteor shower. Like Father, I've become fascinated by celestial phenomena. In many ways, I've come to realize that the incomprehensible vastness of time and space makes much more sense to me than anything that happens in the space and time within which I live.

However, on the nights when the cloud cover is too thick to see the stars, and memories of my lost love threaten to overwhelm me, I put the telescope to a different use. Please be assured, I do this with no ill intent. It began purely as a distraction but soon became a form of social observation. A scientific pursuit, if you will. And as time has passed, my observations have grown into something quite significant. In fact, one day I plan to publish my findings, which is why I've always kept detailed accounts of the activities in a notebook. So far, I've filled twenty.

Behind my block of flats is a communal garden that's separated by a high brick wall from the gardens of the terraced houses beyond. From my roof, I have an excellent view of the comings and goings of the residents in those terraced houses because they're all serviced by large Victorian sash windows. I suppose one could say that at night, each floor of every house is a light box showcasing the activity taking place within, and often, while I sit alone in my garden, I feel compelled to watch those activities—and many times, I've used my telescope to enhance that observation. I've been careful. I'm certain no one can see me, because I've positioned the lens so it can't be seen through the vine-covered railings surrounding my garden. I am a birdwatcher in a blind. Completely concealed.

There's the woman with blue hair and crutches, who habitually shares a packet of biscuits with her dog while laughing uproariously at whatever she's watching on television. There's the bickering couple, who are forever practicing the same four dance moves to a tune I can't hear. There's the young boy sunken into a beanbag chair, playing computer games well past his bedtime, shouting furious instructions into a headset microphone while glugging energy drinks. There's the teenage girl with the long, braided hair; lying on her bed, scrolling on her phone. Always scrolling on her phone. There's the tall, stooping man who never smiles and who stands stock-still for hours, staring at a photograph of a mother and baby on his wall. There's the old woman who lives in a basement directly opposite my flat, her white hair tied into a bun, who shuffles around her garden with a flashlight in the middle of the night, picking up snails and throwing them over the wall.

And finally, there's the beautiful young woman who lives in the flat above the nighttime snail thrower.

Whenever I think of the first day I saw her, I experience a peculiar sensation that isn't altogether unpleasant. She was standing at her open window, her hands resting on the sill. She must have only recently moved in, because I'd never seen her before. Intrigued by this new subject, I'd trained the lens on her face and saw that she was young, perhaps in her midtwenties, with widely spaced, large dark eyes that tilted upward at the outer edge, fine eyebrows, a small nose, and prominent cheekbones.

I could see that she was beautiful, but it was her lips that lifted her above the masses and placed her on another plane: a higher, more dangerous altitude, where only the rarest, most valuable specimens are found. They were so full and red that I was reminded of the improbable bracts of the Psychotria elata plant, a specimen of which I kept under a cloche in my greenhouse. Gradually, I increased the focus until her mouth filled the entire eyepiece.

I've always been better with plants than people, and I tend to name people after the plants they most resemble. Father first suggested I do this when I was a child because I found it difficult to recognize faces and remember names. That first day, I looked at those full red lips made huge by the power of my telescope and chose an affectionate nickname for the young woman. Psycho, after my Psychotria elata plant. I've never confessed to anyone that there have been occasions when I've been tempted to taste those glossy red bracts, even though I know they contain a powerful psychedelic chemical. And as time went by and the observational study notebooks filled, I could sense I was developing a curious fascination for this woman—a fascination as potent and addictive as her namesake.