An Anthony Hamilton's Song Singing, Do You Feel
Me?
There is a strange man under the streetlight at
twilight. Maybe he’d been there all day while all
that white-hot traffic blared by. She doesn’t
know. She saw him while making dinner. The sun was
setting and casting his shadow round, though he
didn’t move and looked like he was watching her.
Only saw him then, notices him now.
Staring hard back, she tries to pick up every detail
and possible threat. Cannot find his eyes but she
knows he’s watching this house from where he is
across the street, slouched, face obscured, leaning
against the streetlight. She swears she can tell
how he’s breathing. It’s like when you’re
sleeping. His hands are in the pockets of what
seems a pair of blue jeans. A homeless man? A
crazy man? A violent man?
The house stands by a six-lane road where, now, too
infrequently, a lone vehicle rips the night air with
a mournful cry. The world continues rotating though
the stillness, making thick everything between
them.
He moves forward suddenly, almost like she imagined
it. Standing still, he looked old. Now, she thinks
he’s not so old at all. His step is slow and
light. He is heading towards her door.
She always told herself to move to a new
neighbourhood and she always said she would but
didn’t. Now, there is a strange man watching the
house, moving now. He has a warm, dark-brown
leather jacket, fitting down to his thighs and
definitely a pair of blue jeans, clean and possibly
even ironed. Homeless and crazy enough to dress
himself well. So there’s that.
She usually notices men watching her immediately
because she doesn’t like it. Men can be
presumptuous and she doubts they do it kindly. When
she saw him earlier, at dinnertime, he was just a
strange shadow made by the orange and red setting
sun and she continued with her sauce. Now she
notices him, when she notices that it’s late and
cold and she is alone on this autumn night. Did he
wait so long, deciding how much she was worth and
how much of a risk?
The step is quiet and steady. A thief might slink?
A rapist would rush? A murderer would have a heavier
step? When is it time to call the police? And he
now stands on the wooded porch by the large, earthen
pot of burgundy and yellow mums.
Hands still in his pockets, he lifts his head and
she looks down at coffee-coloured eyes. They are
preparing a careful question, she thinks. His skin
is brown and a little worn but not by age. Too
wakeful, though the brewing eyes are not laced with
red – maybe he’s just use to long nights. There is
no stubble except a deliberate but light moustache
on a thin upper lip.
He’s just standing there, forming a question though
he can’t know she’s listening, watching more closely
her front door seeing what? No value, no risk? His
mouth relaxes and draws a much longer breath, then
let’s his face close again.
Placing his hand on the heavy door, he rests it
there. Breathes out. A finger traces a deeply
weathered grain and lifts off. He will knock? At
this hour? Make her suffer a formal introduction
before violation? Have the nerve to try to sell her
something after scaring her to death? Looks like
all he’s got in his pockets are hands.
He speaks. The man/boy is speaking. She doesn’t
hear the words. Who is he speaking to? Himself,
certainly not her. What would he say to himself
standing before her, and so quietly that she cannot
hear the words, only his voice -- male, sounding
like confession or secret, to this strange and
almost empty house.
The hand does not round its knuckles. The hand
falls lightly back onto the door, trails down its
many weathered grains, and without effort, the door
opens. He broke her door. She forgot to lock it.
It malfunctioned due to weather and age. And he
knew. She blushes and he stands in the doorway.
What does he want, anyway?
He looks in but doesn’t cross the threshold. More
watching. How can she bear it, this close? She
ought to call the police, her friends, her family,
all her ex-lovers. It’s their fault she is so
lonely on this late autumn night.
He didn’t break her door. He touched it and it
yielded. Did he say a spell? Does she believe in
that? No. She’s trying to be less foolish
than she has been.
It’s too late for strange visitors, go away. You’re
not clever for knowing the door wasn’t locked when
every other is. Lucky, maybe. It’s still not an
invitation.
He enters, closing the door behind him. She listens
to the rustle of the leather jacket like the autumn
leaves outside just floated in. Removing it from
his body, he lays it over the back of her arm
chair. He tries to hum a tune but it fails and
trails off. He’s actually uncomfortable, she
thinks.
He thinks he knows her. Hey, maybe she knows him
and just forgot.
The fireplace is still lit. She does so in the
colder months, though, she wasn’t expecting
company. He is good enough to take off his
travelling shoes before stepping further in.
Her television is very small but she has many CDs
lined up underneath the stand. He’s in. He might
as well not stand there like that. But he won’t sit
down. Goes to the picture frames on the mantle and
touches one, smiles. He’s smiling at her young, and
her sisters playing in the yard. It’s good feng
shui to have family photos about as well as
something good to never forget.
He continues into the kitchen. It’s a big open
kitchen that she’s glad she cleaned earlier that
evening. Flicking the wall switch, he’s at first
startled by the bright kitchen light. She always
uses a 100 volt bulb for kitchen duty. A ceiling
fixture might be a nicer touch. He’s going to try
her leftover lasagne. She left the big fork in it.
Of course, he needs to stare at that, too, for a
good long while before he tries it. Does he like
it? She likes to use extra sauce. It’s not to
everybody’s taste. Taking a small bite, he sits
down finally. Good lasagne or the poor thing was
starving.
He’s in the living room again, finding his hum again
and sitting gingerly on the footstool before the
fire. This boy watches everything. He just stares
and stares into the centre of the fire. As if he
knew there was something more.
Here, by her hearth, she can hear him sing softly.
Maybe he was singing all along by the streetlight, a
light song or serenade. How could she have heard
him from there? How would she know? Her logic said
that being afraid was the right thing to do. But
now that he’s here, the way that he came in … it
would be illogical to pretend. He gives her a song
for all the wood grains that shelter him and pasta
to fill him. He’s so tired. He can end the song
now if he wants to, she has heard enough. He
settles back on the massive couch that is too soft
with too many mismatched pillows. His socks are
worn but clean without holes.
There he is. There he lies. And while he is asleep
on her couch, so tired and weary, she can steal down
to watch him more closely while the fires die out.
She kneels on the carpeted floor before the couch,
and while she reads him, her hands pet the rough
exterior and soft lining of the jacket he left on
her armchair. He’ll wake and not remember where he
is, be afraid, remember somewhere else he use to be
-- has to go. She can hear that even his sleeping
breath sounds like song.
©
lyw
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