Footsteps

I called round to Christina's house as usual; we were planning an evening of light eating and light drinking (light meaning heavy). I pressed her buzzer, she yelled 'GIVE ME TWO MINUTES' and I waited for her to come down. Her front door opened, two minutes later, but rather than being greeted by a pint-sized, smiling Irish girl, as per my expectations, an elderly Frenchman came out, towing an even more elderly poodle in his wake, muttering a little too loudly. I stifled my surprise and let it out seconds later when the real Christina emerged. 'He dyes his hair', she said (it was rather obvious, he looked like a withered Danny from Grease), 'And every time he walks up the stairs past my apartment, he makes weird grunting sounds'. We giggled, high on each other's company after long days spent doing nothing  in our apartments, and headed off to Carrefour to stock up on light food and light beverages (lardons and Desperados).

Back at her apartment, we waited in hushed suspense to hear the old man's footsteps on the stairwell. We laughed as we heard him grunting and muttering his way up to the third floor. He never spoke to her; he just made grunting sounds, muttering madly. 

A few hours later, I left to seek out further light beverages (Martini Rosso) from my tepid freezer. As I descended, I heard footsteps and grunting coming from the stairs below me.

It was the old man (no surprises there). What surprised me, however, was that he wasn't dragging the dog up behind him. He was cradling it in his arms, like mother would her child. 'Bonsoir', I said. 'Est-ce qu'il est fatigué?'. Is he tired? No, he responded, gravely. He's had a stroke.

I wished him good evening and listened to him climbing up the stairs behind me, grunting with the effort of carrying his beloved companion, muttering reassuringly in its ear. I walked out onto the street, a sick-sad feeling in my stomach, eyes glossing over. Laughter silenced.