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I met Marcus later that evening in our spot. He heard me as I moved through the bush. He was waiting for me, with a small plastic bag of groceries in his hand. I was later than usual.
“I was about to go. Wasn’t sure if you’d be here tonight.” He knew already that, if I didn’t show up, it meant I had moved on for the next while. Marcus would, of course, continue to come each week to the park and wait for me, ‘just in case.’
“Not heading out just yet. Soon, maybe.”
“Good idea, good idea. Can’t let anyone get too close, you know. Keep moving. Keep moving.”
“I know.” I let out my breath slowly, in what probably resembled a sigh.
“Something’s on your mind,” he said after a moment of silence and no movement from me.
“Maybe. Marcus, I called a girl tonight.” I’d never discussed my personal life before. I’d never had one to discuss, anyway.
“A girl? What kind of girl? Where’s she from? Why’d you call?” He was on full alert.
“Just—a girl. I met her on a job.”
“Um-hum.” Not exactly approval. Then, “She pretty?”
“Yep.”
“Be careful then.” He told me to watch the pretty ones especially. Most pretty girls were trouble. Not his girls, of course; his beautiful wife and sweet little girl were wonderfully perfect. And did I know that his daughter had started preschool that morning?
Before I left, he reached out and touched my arm. As far as I could remember, Marcus had never touched me. “Be careful, Joshua. You don’t want to get hurt.”
It was too late, though. And it was my own fault.
The next night, across from her building, I glanced at my watch again. 7:55. The family was long gone, but I had resolved to wait until 8:00, and I resisted the urge—again—to go early. I’d been there for almost an hour, waiting. She’d changed three times in the past forty-five minutes. I’d tried not to watch her getting ready, but it was difficult to look away. She was really quite beautiful, although I hadn’t noticed it before I’d spoken to her. Watching her now, though, felt like an invasion. Did she know I was out here, trying not to look? Why hadn’t she drawn her curtains?
Eight o’clock. I looked around once, but I didn’t hesitate long before I crossed the space between us. The large living room window was already open, the screen removed. I climbed in quickly. She was sitting on the couch, watching T.V., pretending that she hadn’t been waiting anxiously for me, that she hadn’t removed the screen fifteen minutes prior to my arrival, and that she was completely enthralled with this evening’s presentation of whatever nature show seemed to be playing, which looked, to me, to be about tigers mating in a sanctuary somewhere—South Africa, maybe. “Hi. Eight, right?” I greeted her as if I were convinced by her pretense.
“Oh,” she said, pulling off an exaggerated startle somewhat comically. I struggled to keep a straight face. “You’re here. Come in.” I was in, but I nodded and sat beside her. “So,” she said, glancing sidelong at me, “what do you want to do?” There were many things I could think of, I’m sure, but none that seemed appropriate at the moment. “We could watch a movie.” She filled my silence. “We have satellite.”
“Sure.” A movie. I didn’t know if I’d ever watched an entire movie. I’d seen them on before, at my marks’ houses. With Nik, it had been all business: the quickest way into a home, the importance of keeping your face covered, the essential nature of gloves. And certainly, there were no movies before Nik.
She was fiddling with the remote now. She located a menu and scrolled through. A movie. Quaint. Surreal, somehow. Watching a movie, with a girl, on a Thursday night. It was such an ordinary, commonplace activity, and yet I had never experienced anything like it. She read me the titles. I wasn’t really listening, and I nodded at one she sounded like she liked. It started, and she got up, walked across the room, and turned out the lights. “I’ll make us some popcorn,” she called, as she went into the lighted kitchen. Popcorn. Whose life was this?
Soon I heard popping; the salty, buttery scent filled the room. The movie had already begun playing, but I was listening to her in the kitchen. The tiny clink of the glass bowl as she took it down from the shelf. The rustling of the bag as she shook the popcorn out. The soft padding of her feet as she walked across the floor to sit down beside me. My upper and lower set of wings were extended on either side of me, flat against the back of the couch, spanning over its entire length. I was certain it was a strange sight, but it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered but the sensation of her shoulder touching mine, her arm pressed against the length of my arm, our legs fused at the outside of our thighs. She rested the popcorn on our laps, between us, and I moved my inside hand to rest it on the base of the bowl. She stared at the TV intently.
“Have you seen this before?” I asked.
“Yes.” Her reply was quick, a little too shrill. The popcorn sat warming me, but I couldn’t bring myself to move my hand to take any. I couldn’t remember ever being as aware of another human in my life—and I had spent my life being aware of other humans. I had no idea what was happening on the screen in front of me. I stopped breathing every time she shifted her weight, and I was struck with the distinct knowledge that my right hand, which was resting comfortably on the popcorn bowl, was also resting quite comfortably on her lap. I couldn’t think. I blinked rapidly, trying to get my bearings. I pulled my hand up quickly and reached into the popcorn bowl. The warm kernels gave me something concrete to do, as I focused now on the taste and the texture—anything other than my proximity to her. I suddenly realized, with horrified fascination, that I had turned to watch her bring the popcorn to her lips. I tore my gaze away, fighting to concentrate on the movie, to keep my mind from going places I was unprepared to go. I attempted valiantly to focus on the screen before me. I failed. Miserably. As if they had a life of their own, my fingers found hers within the bowl, and I wrapped her fingers in mine. We sat like that for the remainder of the movie; shoulder to shoulder, thigh to thigh, and hand to hand in the popcorn bowl. As the credits rolled, I hoped there would be no skill-testing question. There had undoubtedly been some sort of plot line of which I should be aware, but I couldn’t recall it, not for the life of me.
I was struck by the idea again that I shouldn’t be here. Not on some sort of date, with a beautiful girl who didn’t know me. Who couldn’t ever know me. I turned to her, to tell her I had to leave, to make an excuse. As I met her eyes, though, I was startled to see her watching me intently. Waiting. Waiting for what? Suddenly, some part of me knew. I stood abruptly. “That was good,” I told her, my voice forced and too-loud in the intensity of the moment. She looked surprised. The spell was broken. She got to her feet awkwardly.
“Do you want to do something else? We could... I don’t know... we could play a game?”
Games. I’d played enough now. “No, I can’t,” I told her, backing away toward the window. What exactly had I thought I was doing? I thought I could sit with a girl and hold her hand and then what? It wasn’t fair. “I have things to do tonight.” My wings were at the window now, my hands on the sill. “I should really get going.” She looked confused, but I steadied myself and turned my back to her.
“Did I do something wrong?” she asked softly, hurt etched in every word. Her words abruptly halted my retreat. I could no more crawl through that window than take the wings off my back. I sighed, still not looking at her.
“No. It’s me. I should never have come. I just –” I hesitated. Simplest answer. Always give the simplest answer. “My life is no good for sharing. A relationship can’t work.”
There was silence behind me. I felt her move forward to come and stand beside me at the window, at the glass beside the open screen. “Who’s talking about a relationship?”
“Lexi, I’m bad for you. You’re innocent. Happy.”
“Happy?” Her voice cracked. “I’m not happy, Joshua. You’ve spent all this time watching me—and you think I’m happy?”
“You have the whole family thing. Friends. I don’t. And I don’t want any.” Or I didn’t, before I’d met her. “I don’t want to complicate my life.”
“Then go. Go if you want to. I don’t even know you anyway.” Her fingers were tracing shapes along the glass now, in the steam. Swirls, hearts, flowers.
“You’re right. You don’t know me.” I watched her childish art take shape.
“When I saw you, that first time,” her voice was small, “I was terrified. But as soon as you took off that mask and let me look into your face, I wanted to know you, you know? And then, when you left, I couldn’t stop thinking about you—some guy, who broke into my house. I should have been afraid. I should have called the police, or told my parents, or at least hoped you’d never be back. But I couldn’t stop watching for you, hoping. So I could know you.” I heard her take a shaky breath. “I want you to stay. Joshua, please stay.” How could I possibly leave after that?
I captured her fingers in mine now, holding her cold hand against the window. She turned her face to look at me. “I just don’t know where this is going,” I told her.
“Does it really matter?”
“I guess not. Not really.” I imagined pulling her against my body now, leaning in and touching her lips with mine. I could see it vividly, feel it. But instead, I slowly released her hand and let my arm hang down in a semblance of relaxation. I was staying.
I let her take my hand and lead me back inside. We sat on the carpet, in front of the blackened TV. She turned on the light.
The evening passed too quickly. We spent it simply. She made me pasta, told me about her graduation, taught me to play poker. I won every round—I was, after all, a much better liar than she was. At 10:30, the alarm I’d set on my watch began to beep, warning me it was time to go.
“I’d better disappear. Your parents will be home soon.”
“You really have been watching.” She took my wrist and looked down at the large black watch. “And who wears a watch anymore?”
“What can I say? Tools of the trade. And I’m good at my job.” I led the way to the window and then turned, my back against the wall, with her standing just inches from me. I wondered what her lips would taste like. I’d called her innocent and naïve, but I’d never even kissed anyone before. I got the distinct impression she wouldn’t object. Instead though, I simply nodded and turned to leave.
“Are you really going to call me this time?” she asked.
“Of course.” As I disappeared into the darkness, I knew that should be the last lie I’d ever tell her.
It wasn’t, though. I called her the next night, and the ones after that. When the streets were dark and abandoned, her natural, soothing alto was an addictive balm to the emptiness. Not that it could last. I knew, ultimately, I’d need to let her go. The longer I waited, the harder it was going to be.