Steel Mountains

The elevator always takes ages, yet he knows that the stairs would be the death of him at this point. Knees about to give out, still dripping sweat. Ramon rarely shares the lift with anyone else, except for the regulars: a late-night errand, a drunk, a red-eye flight back to the metropolis. It always feels cramped, even when he is alone. He knows which floor to press by memory, not by understanding the icons. It has been this way since day one, though. His floor is thousands of stories higher than he ever was back home, yet it is nowhere near the penthouse. Ramon delicately turns the knob and slowly enters his apartment. In the dark, he feels his way towards a light switch. The light-blue lamp doesn’t illuminate the whole room but gives him enough to do what he needs to do. Two slow fingers turn the sink on and he forces the grease to leave his hands. Tired eyes look into the refrigerator and reach for a Tupperware. As soon as he turns on the microwave, he looks around, making sure the sounds didn’t cause any commotion.

Slowly sitting down on the couch, his knees finally catch a break, Ramon takes the first bite of his dinner. Marta does her best to recreate home with the ingredients she finds here. The TV scans his face and clicks on, two seconds later it switches the language to Spanish. He quickly reaches for the remote and lowers the volume down to five. Loud enough that he can understand the sports commentary, quiet enough to stay in the living room. His head peaks into a door with glitter on it, they’re fast asleep. The shower head washes a layer of work off him as the phantom weight sets in. Ramon had been wearing the matching locket Marta gifted him long before the came to here. Today, it’s this aluminum chain finally gave out and he saw it fall a thousand feet down from his welding spot.

He cuddles up next to Marta. The sun will rise soon yet the forest of skyscrapers around them make for good shade. In a few hours, a familiar rumble with interrupt his rest. Small sets of feet running around so that they don’t miss the school bus.

Not taking the kids all the way to school will never cease to feel off to Marta. Even though you can get anywhere faster here, everything was walking distance back home. At least this is all they really know, so it can’t bother them. She closes the door behind them and the process begins. The flat basically runs its own errands, like a hundred-yard dash.

The construction noise outside the building has been there since before they moved in. Is it even noise at that point? There are, at least, 200,000 people in the building at a given time. Marta has “met” about three and a half. The three college students across the hall, who helped them move in, and her section’s landlord. Landlord’s only half because he only calls to talk about rent. A million other people roam outside, yet she stays home if she can help it. Everyone is too busy with themselves out there. Ramon sleeps like a corpse at this point. Even then she is in a constant state of minding his sleep. Every minute counts for him. Meanwhile, she’ll spend one minute trying to figure out what to do with the next. Paula let her know something came up, so their daily video chat is cancelled. At least they’ll have more to talk about tomorrow. Walking by Ramon’s side of the room, she notices his locket is missing from his bare chest. She’ll wait to ask him about it on his day off. Loneliness is a strange feeling to have when your husband is in the other room.

Lunch is an exciting, frustrating time. The temperature can be controlled down to the degree. Any condiment, spice, sauce, or additive is a few taps away. She can choose the kind of chicken down to its farm. Yet it never tastes quite like the field. There must be something about a gas stove and a clay pot, she supposes. On days where Marta doesn’t feel like failing, she becomes her own critic. Peach colored nails flip to a fresh dish in the cook book and she makes it to its fullest extent. Flavor, consistency, texture, and presentation. It’s all there. She struggles with raw meat, but anything cooked poses no threat. The preparation, creation, consumption, and cleaning process takes around two point five hours. Then its back to minute-to-minute.

Breakfast for some and dinner for others, the evening meal is a highlight for everyone. Ramon gets to start his “morning” hearing about how their day went. A goal scored in gym class, struggle reading a passage, and whatever 5th grade gossip sounds like. As the week pushes forward, weekend plans are solidified and repeated. As if confirming that they’re going to be all together for more than one meal.