body red and sore. I brush my teeth and slip into a pair of freshly washed pajamas, courtesy of Claire. I towel-dry my hair.
Walking back into the bedroom, I return the scissors to the top drawer of the nightstand, then grab my binoculars and proceed to the window. It takes only a few seconds for me to locate the right apartment—three floors down, four windows from the left. The light in the bedroom is still on, and its occupant is moving around inside. He approaches the window, his shirt unbuttoned and hanging loose, and stares down at the street below, running his hand absently through his hair. Then he turns in my direction, almost as if he knows I’m there. I watch him reach toward the turquoise lamp with its pleated white shade on the high table in front of him. I watch the room go dark.
— EIGHT —
The nightmare begins almost as soon as I close my eyes. It repeats itself over and over again, as if on an endless reel. I am being chased by a faceless man wearing black Nike sneakers. Despite the fact that I’m running as fast as I can, he is gaining on me. Across the street is a four-story, lemon-yellow building. A woman is sitting on her balcony, staring at me through a pair of binoculars. She can see everything. Surely she will call the police, and I’ll be saved. Except she doesn’t call the police. Instead, she inches forward in her seat, adjusting the focus of her binoculars so that she can see more clearly what is about to happen. She watches the man grab me from behind and throw me to the ground. She watches as he beats me with his fists and tears the clothes from my body. She watches as he pushes into me, pounding me repeatedly and without mercy into the cold, hard ground. Only when he is done does she lower her binoculars so that I can see her face.
My
face.
I come instantly awake, gasping for air, my entire body bathed in perspiration, my sheets soaked.
I should be used to such dreams by now, but I’m not. I looktoward the clock beside my bed. It is almost ten A . M . Heath is gone. In his place is a note:
Got a callback on that Whiskas commercial. Talk to you later, H.
I climb out of bed, walk to the bedroom window, press the button that lifts the blackout blinds. I am blinded by the bright sun shining into my face. My eyes close reflexively. I lean my head against the glass, soaking up the sun’s rays, trying to gather strength from its warmth.
He’s there when I open my eyes, mere inches from my face, his nose pressed against my own. I scream and stumble back toward my bed, falling to my knees and burying my face in the palms of my hands, my hands shaking. I hear laughter and force my eyes up. The man is still there, dangling just outside my window, a rope around his waist securing him to the suspended wooden platform on which he stands, a long squeegee in his hands, as he draws it back and forth against the glass. Another man is standing next to him. Both men are olive-skinned and in their early twenties. They wear baggy white uniforms with logos that identify them as “Prestige Window Cleaners.”
“Sorry about that. Didn’t mean to scare you,” the first man shouts through the thick glass. “Didn’t you get the notice we’d be working this side of the building today?”
I push myself back into a standing position, steady myself against the foot of the bed. I forgot all about this.
“You might want to close your blinds,” the second man suggests.
I press the button and the blinds descend, causing the men to disappear an inch at a time, first their heads, then the logos on their uniforms, followed by their torsos, their legs, and finally their heavy work boots, as effortlessly as if I’m erasing figures from a chalkboard. Would that everything were so easy to erase.
The phone rings, and I jump.
“Hi, babe.” His voice caresses my skin. “How’re you doing today?”
“Okay.” I’m so relieved I almost burst into tears. It’s been three days since his last
Walking back into the bedroom, I return the scissors to the top drawer of the nightstand, then grab my binoculars and proceed to the window. It takes only a few seconds for me to locate the right apartment—three floors down, four windows from the left. The light in the bedroom is still on, and its occupant is moving around inside. He approaches the window, his shirt unbuttoned and hanging loose, and stares down at the street below, running his hand absently through his hair. Then he turns in my direction, almost as if he knows I’m there. I watch him reach toward the turquoise lamp with its pleated white shade on the high table in front of him. I watch the room go dark.
— EIGHT —
The nightmare begins almost as soon as I close my eyes. It repeats itself over and over again, as if on an endless reel. I am being chased by a faceless man wearing black Nike sneakers. Despite the fact that I’m running as fast as I can, he is gaining on me. Across the street is a four-story, lemon-yellow building. A woman is sitting on her balcony, staring at me through a pair of binoculars. She can see everything. Surely she will call the police, and I’ll be saved. Except she doesn’t call the police. Instead, she inches forward in her seat, adjusting the focus of her binoculars so that she can see more clearly what is about to happen. She watches the man grab me from behind and throw me to the ground. She watches as he beats me with his fists and tears the clothes from my body. She watches as he pushes into me, pounding me repeatedly and without mercy into the cold, hard ground. Only when he is done does she lower her binoculars so that I can see her face.
My
face.
I come instantly awake, gasping for air, my entire body bathed in perspiration, my sheets soaked.
I should be used to such dreams by now, but I’m not. I looktoward the clock beside my bed. It is almost ten A . M . Heath is gone. In his place is a note:
Got a callback on that Whiskas commercial. Talk to you later, H.
I climb out of bed, walk to the bedroom window, press the button that lifts the blackout blinds. I am blinded by the bright sun shining into my face. My eyes close reflexively. I lean my head against the glass, soaking up the sun’s rays, trying to gather strength from its warmth.
He’s there when I open my eyes, mere inches from my face, his nose pressed against my own. I scream and stumble back toward my bed, falling to my knees and burying my face in the palms of my hands, my hands shaking. I hear laughter and force my eyes up. The man is still there, dangling just outside my window, a rope around his waist securing him to the suspended wooden platform on which he stands, a long squeegee in his hands, as he draws it back and forth against the glass. Another man is standing next to him. Both men are olive-skinned and in their early twenties. They wear baggy white uniforms with logos that identify them as “Prestige Window Cleaners.”
“Sorry about that. Didn’t mean to scare you,” the first man shouts through the thick glass. “Didn’t you get the notice we’d be working this side of the building today?”
I push myself back into a standing position, steady myself against the foot of the bed. I forgot all about this.
“You might want to close your blinds,” the second man suggests.
I press the button and the blinds descend, causing the men to disappear an inch at a time, first their heads, then the logos on their uniforms, followed by their torsos, their legs, and finally their heavy work boots, as effortlessly as if I’m erasing figures from a chalkboard. Would that everything were so easy to erase.
The phone rings, and I jump.
“Hi, babe.” His voice caresses my skin. “How’re you doing today?”
“Okay.” I’m so relieved I almost burst into tears. It’s been three days since his last
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