By Riley Bampton
The courtyard is plain, four metres long by three metres wide, and paved with red brick tiles. Grass would be too hard to upkeep, and the real estate prefers an easy turnover. Annoyingly, weeds sprout through cracks between the pavers. They are small enough that a quick scrape from a shoe disintegrates them entirely. Hardier weeds from beyond the back fence creep into the raised garden bed. These take a little more time to remove, with gloved hands and elbow grease. The retaining wall that holds the garden in place rots, another two years and it will collapse—nothing to worry about now. A yellow picnic table sits in the centre, tealight candles atop.
The cover for the table lies crumpled in the corner, it’s been thrown off hurriedly, dinner is on the stove and the guests are arriving. Unfortunately, the cover revealed a freshly dead mouse, pink foam bubbling from its mouth. The rodent’s fur looks soft: its eyes are closed and its feet curl tightly to its chest. It looked peaceful and Frankie wanted to pet it but decided against it seeing as they were cooking tonight. They returned inside, switched the outdoor light off, and set the dining table instead.
A driveway off the main road leads to the apartment complex. The first driveway after a steep hill, a respite from the deadlock traffic. There are thirteen units in their complex, each indiscernible from the other. Frankie and their partner were lucky to get the unit, it had visitor parking, a pool and a grassed area, all of which were maintained monthly by groundsmen. Frankie felt fancy calling them groundsmen. They still hadn’t swum in the pool yet due to the ducks. Ducks shit everywhere.
The door was green on the listing but had since been painted white. There are two bedrooms, one bathroom and an open-plan kitchen, dining and living room. The kitchen counter is long with plenty of space for messy dinners. The only setback is the drab, beige, linoleum countertop. The floor is tile which makes for easy cleaning, but the pantry and fridge are small. Beggars can’t be choosers.
On the end of the bench is a philodendron, given to Frankie, along with twelve other plants by their neighbour Steve. When they got it, the plant had six leaves, it now had eight. The leaves are dark green and brighten as they climb. A wooden kebab skewer keeps the vines climbing skyward. Unbeknownst to the new owners, this philodendron housed a colony of sugar ants.
The ants dismantled everything. Massacring late-night Uber Eats leftovers to serve their queen. They march across the bench, single file, in darkness to pilfer and pillage. Frankie placed ant traps in every corner to no avail. The colony hiding in the blue plastic pot would stay safe from the chemicals. Frankie and their partner would stay safe in the unit, just off the main road. Hidden from the bustling city, a colony in itself.
