she had seen, their numbers growing in the streets even before the calamity hit, as she had gone about her old life. Walking to the pub. Visiting shops. Eating at restaurants. She wondered if perhaps he had had a place of his own to live in before the voxsola, only to be kicked out by a panicking landlord when he could no longer pay the rent. She wondered if anyone knew what had happened to him. If anyone missed him.
*
When Sylvia next awoke it was light outside. She groaned and stretched her aching limbs. She was definitely getting too old to sleep on the sofa; her back and limbs would be complaining all of the next day. Groggily she picked up her blanket, gently moved the cat off her feet and stumbled into her bed. Vague images from her dream flickered in her mind, but as she tried to catch them, each image faded away, leaving only the impression behind. She crawled under the duvet and tried to get back to sleep. Idly she thought again that she should have invested in blackout curtains.
As she lay in the bed, she heard the tell tale signs of the morning. The bird song was so loud, now that there were no cars on the road. Beneath the thin floor of her apartment, she could hear muffled voices as the old couple in the flat below had their customary breakfast squabble. The noise of the city waking up and going to work, such that it was, drifted through the window from the streets. Sylvia knew she was lucky. The museum was still operational, was still paying her enough to cover her rent, her food. How long this situation would last was anyone’ s guess, but she was grateful for this life while she still had it. How precious it suddenly seemed. How precious all their lives, however directionless and menial, seemed these days.
73