Split

Despite living together, I never see the owners of the Split Flat going anywhere as a couple. A middle-aged man and woman, I assume they are married, or at least were, given their age and the fact that they live together. Their apartment is located at the opposite end of the hall from mine, meaning that the layout of the interior should mirror my own; a master bedroom with an ensuite, a smaller second bedroom, a bathroom and a kitchen-living space. One apartment, with two separate lives inside; two separate beds, separate cutlery, separate bathrooms, separate chairs… everything about their lives designed so concisely that they might never cross one another. I imagine their living space, the only room they would be forced to share, divided into two halves, each half marked by a different rug, his one patterned by a geometrically abstract brown, and hers a circular-shaped ivory floor mat.

He sits in a simple tan leather chair, while she reclines on a sophisticated indoor deckchair, metal framed with black faux-leather padding. I can even picture their chairs facing opposite directions, allowing them to watch two different shows on their two different televisions, before grudgingly sitting down for a meal at their long, dark wood dining table, sawed neatly in half down the middle. The owners of the Split Flat truly live in two perfectly parallel existences. All the way down to their separate lovers.

During the week, he leaves for work thirty minutes after she does, and he usually returns home about an hour later. If he does at all.

I can only imagine what his life is like, what secrets he keeps that he thinks his wife doesn’t know about.