LITMIR.BIZ

       Chapter 2

      My bones are creaking, a pain working its way from the inside out. It’s such a chore sometimes to even get moving, to walk across the kitchen, to stoop down to feed Amos. Some days, it’s a hardship to even prod myself out of bed, the comforter enveloping me in a way that says ‘stay’.

      Sometimes, I think about staying in bed all day, my scratchy, aged blanket wrapped around me like a cocoon, protecting me from the vile world. There are worse things than to perish tucked in a warm bed, worn-out blanket or not.

      Nevertheless, I deny myself the luxury of oblivion the bed offers. Instead, I wander over to Amos’s food station, the sweet cat already meowing, awaiting his morsels of food. I carefully open the can, scraping some of the gloppy tuna-like concoction onto his plate before making my own tea. It’s silly, I know, serving a cat before myself. But Amos is my best friend, my everything. It makes me feel good to have someone to pamper, to care for. It feels good to be needed.

      After getting my cup of tea, only filled halfway, of course – I’ve learned the perils of a full cup the hard way – I trudge over to my spot, the familiar wood of the rocking chair welcoming me back into position. I rock for a moment, gently appraising the day, as is my custom. The sun is just coming up, glinting off the newly fallen leaves of reds, golds and oranges. It’s my favourite scene out my window, the cool breeze of the autumn air gently lifting the edges of the decayed leaves. Even in here, with the dusty smell of an ageing house, I can close my eyes and smell the earthy scent of autumn, feel the brisk air on my face, and see his perfect smile.

      He always loved this time of year. In our younger days, he would drag me pumpkin picking at the Johnsons’ farm, hay bales lined up to lead the way. I’d roll my eyes and tell him it was pointless. Deep down, though, I loved those afternoons, wandering on the farm, choosing the right pumpkin we’d carve up that night accompanied by hot apple cider. I wish, even now, I could tell him I loved those days.

      I should’ve told him how much I loved those days.

      I sigh, my eyes temporarily averted by the sight of the neighbour – Alexander Clarke. He’s off to work, bright and early, before the day has really begun. He straightens his tie, a hand running through his hair, before jumping into his automobile and heading down the road.

      It’s been three months since he and Jane moved in, three months of joyful furniture buying and evenings on their porch and walks. Three months of front-porch kisses and squealing laughter in the front yard. Three months of sheer happiness, of love in its truest, purest form.

      At first, I’d worried they’d think it odd, an old woman and her cat peering out at them. I hesitated some mornings, wondering if I was being creepy, staring into the lives, into the business of others so regularly.

      But I couldn’t peel myself away.

      It became something to look forward to, studying them, watching them, trying to piece together their story from what I can see. It’s quite a fun game, really, and I get to learn more than one would think. From driveway goodbyes to outdoor chores, I can judge a lot about them, can put together so many titbits into a clear puzzle of my design. What’s more, they haven’t put up a blind in the window of their dining room or even draperies. The large bay window sits unobstructed by anything, its sparkling clear glass giving me a full view of their heavy wooden table. I get to be privy to their mealtimes, to their interactions, to their morning coffee.

      I know. It seems ridiculous. But I can’t, I just can’t, take myself away from them. There’s something haunting about young love, about getting to see it all unfold. And for an old lady like me, alone and bored, these stories, these interactions, they keep me going. They make that creaky exit out of bed a little more bearable. They give me something intriguing to wrap myself up in.

      I’ve come to learn that it’s okay, anyway. They’re so engrossed with each other, in their lives, they don’t notice a frail old woman peering out her window at them. Mornings when he leaves for work, afternoons when she busies herself with household work or other tasks, or evenings when they’re together, they’ve always got something to keep themselves go, go, going. The life of the young is exhaustingly busy.

      Not that they’re stuck-up or selfish. No, they’re neighbourly enough. Well, at least the woman is. She came over about three days after they moved in, knocked on my door around eleven in the morning.

      Let’s be clear: I liked Jane from the day she moved in. The way she carried herself, the way she ambled around even when she was clearly exhausted from moving – I saw something there. And once she came over for the first time, I really liked her, a deep-seated, internal liking of her.

      Still, brewing beneath the surface, I felt something else, too. Maybe it was just paranoia roiling from my lonely days, or maybe I’ve just spent too much time in my own head. But something in me flopped when she came over, something unsettling finding its way to the surface. Not enough to make me change my mind about her – but enough to damage the perfect view of her just a little bit, just enough to make me slightly uncomfortable.

      Nonetheless, there was something about her from day one that made that nervous anxiety easy to ignore, even if I shouldn’t have.

      * * *

       It was quite the task to hobble to the door before she scurried away, thinking me asleep. I rushed into the hallway, reminding myself to be careful, that it wouldn’t do to fall and hurt myself. How sad are the days when a broken hip becomes one’s biggest fear?

       I made it in time, the girl standing in a bright yellow sundress holding a pie. Yellow is her colour. It makes her blonde hair look even blonder. It fits her complexion nicely. It fits with her neon personality. Maybe I’m partial, though. I’ve always been fond of yellow since I was a little girl. It’s a happy colour.

       ‘Hi, nice to meet you! I’m the new neighbour: Jane Clarke. I just thought since you’re our only neighbour, I’d stop and say hi.’

       I smiled, her energy contagious. She was bubbling and talking a mile a minute, the youth and naivety about life softening her in ways I was no longer soft. Looking into her clear blue eyes, I saw such hope and such dreams.

       I missed those days.

       ‘That’s so nice, dear. Yes, it’s great to talk to you. How is your move going?’

Скачать книгу