The three old ladies

I call them my Furies; they stare at me wherever I go. The slight rustling of the curtains on the first floor, the creaking of the door when I leave my apartment… they’re always there watching and waiting. They have nothing else to do. They are my neighbours, my very own witches who cackle but offer no predictions.

The first steals my newspapers, if I don’t pick them up by 8am. She’s always lurking in the corridor looking for something to steal. My landlady says that she even made off with a neighbour’s commode. Though how an 80-year- old can accomplish such a task escapes my imagination.

The second is a vigilante – her targets are vehicles parked in front of the building gate. The moment a car is parked outside the gate, she rushes out of her house with surprising agility armed with a rusted spear. She then proceeds to deflate the tires systematically, muttering to herself.

The third smells of cats – rumour has it that there are about 20 in her apartment. But even the local authorities don’t have the courage to investigate.

On Sundays I see them go to church. The three old women mutter and mumble. When they see me, they make the sign of the cross. They hold the mirror to my future. One day I will be old and wrinkled. I see the signs. I’ve already started muttering to myself, and I want to adopt a stray cat. My living room is littered with newspapers and magazines.

When I grow old, I will be a frizzy-haired chain-smoking alcoholic. There will be no mirrors in my house. I am not that brave.