1
He was there again, standing across the road from the apartment, hands
thrust into voluminous pockets. Today was the fourth day John had seen him out
there, or at least the fourth day of his being conscious of the stranger’s
presence just beyond the front door. Each of those days without fail he stood
like a pillar, dressed in a large overcoat and a broad brimmed hat despite the
warm weather. John couldn’t discern the features of his face, but could see
skin the colour of milk in vivid contrast to the shadows gathered under the
brim of his hat. He knew not whether he smiled or frowned or held his face
pensive. All he knew was that the stranger was there, watchful, watching...
perhaps waiting for something, or someone.
John regarded this
strange apparition for several long seconds, the briefcase in his hand feeling
like a dead weight, all of a sudden too heavy... too grand a burden. The man
across the street didn’t move. Nor did he seem to be aware of John’s advent
through the front door. He seemed to be watching the sky closely, as if fearing
a sudden spate of rain. Even as John inched slowly towards his car, the
stranger didn’t appear to be noticing... but was John merely allowing his
imagination to run amok... or was this guy really on the lookout for him?
Surely not, John mused. Even still, his throat felt as
if it were lined with cotton wool, as it had yesterday and the day before when
he noticed the stranger.
John
unlocked the door to his car and got in. Somehow, in the safety of the car, he
could relax. He was still there, but John wasn’t out in the open, and
therefore, not in danger. Nevertheless, his elbow stole up to the window and
depressed the locking mechanism. The car started without a hitch and he
reversed slowly, keeping his eyes on the apparition across the road through the
rear view mirror. He didn’t move, in fact, he seemed disinterested in this
daily ritual, his face still pointing towards the sky. Why John was letting the
stranger’s presence get to him he didn’t know.
At length, the car was
in the main road, idling. Still the man didn’t move. John crept forward slowly,
slowly— ever so slowly, eyes darting from the road in front to the man
reflected in the rear view mirror. For the fifty metres that encompassed the length
of the street, the man didn’t move: not a single muscle, nor blink of an eye
(not that John could actually see the latter). At the intersection he stopped,
chewing the inside of his cheek as he negotiated the oncoming traffic. He
looked left, looked right, then left again, taking all of about three seconds. And
when he looked back into the rear view mirror, the man had vanished without a
trace...
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