Enemies with Good Intentions

5-6 years ago, I used to live in a shitty apartment between unsteady relationships and working. On the first floor, I had a tiny garden in the back surrounded by walls and other buildings. And a boyfriend who knew about gardening a little, he helped me make a little garden. Just flowers and some fruit trees. He kept saying there wasn't enough space for a tree but I wanted anyway. I wasn't even going to be there in a year or two. Until then, I wanted to grow something. When we broke up, I thanked him for the garden. He told me to take care of it.

I don't smoke. I never smoked in my life. But I loved going out to that garden every night. Being there made me feel alone but surrounded with people, just what I needed. I could hear early sleepers snoring, TV noises, teenagers yelling their parents, people having sex. In the weekends, I'd mostly hear the lady living upstairs reading words, repeating, trying to spell them right.

One Saturday morning, she threw the book to my garden while I was listening to music. She pointed a line in the book she held. I got up and took the book, a first grade reading exercise book. She was reading it to me, asking me if she was pronouncing the words correctly. I corrected some of the words. She kept reading, I kept reading back and correcting. She thanked me and said she needed to cook, she left the book with me.

Next weekend, I was reading in the garden when she asked me if we could read again. I said yes, she kept reading, I kept reading back. Then she asked me "Where is the boy?" Their balcony could see nothing but my garden, I wasn't surprised that she noticed there was a guy and now he was gone. I told her that he needed to go. She asked me my age and why I was alone. I said 27 but couldn't answer the other question. She smoked, she smoked all the time. She told me she never learned reading. Her family didn't bother sending her to school, she got married when she was 15, travelled to a big city she didn't know with a grumpy old husband. Already 2 kids when she was just 18. I had nothing to say when she asked me why I was alone. She never knew how being alone felt like. I'm sure she would've liked it. She gave me a piece of cake she baked.

Next weekend, we read more. She was getting much better. She asked me if the boy was coming back. Women like her, women like my mom, people in my culture... They're always worried about lonely women. They never want women to be alone. They never say it to you directly but they'll keep asking. They'll never ask if you're happy but they'll ask if you have a man, if you'll have a man. Or if you had a man. You can't be angry at them for worrying about you, for hiding "you're old, you should have a man before it's too late or none will have you" in their questions. I could almost hear that but I smiled, said he wasn't coming back and I was ok. I couldn't ask her if she was happy. This culture teaches you to smile and nod even if they rub salt in your wounds. You learn to love the ones who judge you. You become the master of smiling, nodding to their worried questions mixed with judgement and doing what you want to do. In the end, she didn't know any better.

Most weekends, we read together. In a few months, she started reading short stories. I gifted her a La Fontaine book, wrapped and put it in her basket when she gave me stuffed grape leaves. She would ask the same question in different ways. This time it was loneliness. She always said that they were upstairs if I needed anything. To her, I wasn't whole. I had missing parts and she was offering help for me to be whole. I said thank you, once again like a good single woman. She asked "Aren't you scared of being alone?"

I said "it's quiet."