your other theories on this mystery of ours.”
I rose and walked straight for the door. Behind me, I heard Watley begin to rise quickly but then settle back down into his chair. I turned the knob, half-expecting to find myself locked in, and then pulled open the door.
In the hall, I paused and turned back. I waited to see if he’d say anything. He held my gaze. I watched his eyes for any movement … observed his breathing … his skin … any nonverbal response.… “John,” I said quietly. He tilted his head to one side receptively. “I know it’s you. I know it.”
Nothing. The picture of tranquility. His lips curled up into that same smug bastard smile. “You know nothing,” he whispered. I broke eye contact, grabbed hold of the massive door, and slammed it behind me.
* * *
My apartment was more depressing than ever. A tiny cell with a few cans of government-issue food and some cheap liquor. My stained and scratched-up pressboard coffee table. The bed with its never-changed sheets. Rust all over the bathroom. I looked around the place as if seeing it for the first time, as if I had stepped into someone else’s home and thought, How do you live like this? How is this your life?
On top of my newfound loathing of the place, I also didn’t feel safe there. There was no way everything today had been coincidence. You’ll figure it out, Tommy. You’ll figure it out. Always do. Always have, anyway. I muttered some of this out loud; some I repeated in my head as I paced around my little home. I grabbed a bottle of scotch from under the sink and started taking small pulls from it.
My mind was racing but going nowhere. I knew it was a bad plan, that I wasn’t secure in my own place and that I should have my wits about me, but getting a little drunk sounded divine. I had thrown my button-down shirt into a pile in the corner and now stripped off my T-shirt. The cloth stuck to my skin, damp from mist and perspiration, and it took some wriggling and twisting before I was finally free of it and bare chested. My breath came quickly and I stepped before the window and looked out into the gray black evening. My lips parted and eyes blazed, and for a while I felt as if something were about to happen—something outside of me or from within.
I looked over my shoulder at the small room. Nothing, of course. I pressed my forehead against the glass, but all I could see was the faintest outline of the street below in the pale yellow glow of the shitshop. My hands were trembling, and I realized I was still holding the T-shirt balled up in my left fist. I dragged it across my brow and then violently threw it to the floor. After a large gulp of scotch, I slammed the bottle down on the table and returned to the window.
I pushed both palms against the pane, arms raised above me. Slowly I leaned forward until my chest pressed against it too. The cold glass was soothing, comforting even, tangible. My life had been so stable, in its own way, for so long that these few days spent stumbling into the unknown were taking their toll. I didn’t know what to do with myself. Did I just wait and see if Rebecca showed up tomorrow and politely ask what the hell she’d gotten me into? Rebecca whose last name I didn’t know. Becca the lovely chameleon, the frightened lover, the little rich girl …
I pressed the side of my face to the glass. The skin by my right eye stretched and my vision blurred. The world was one half my living room, one half a swirl of yellow and gray. Then … I thought for just a fleeting second I had seen a man wearing a fedora on the street below me looking up. I took in a deep breath and let it out slowly, scanning the haze. A trick of the eye? Must have been …
Then I bolted for the door, grabbing the whiskey bottle—it being the only blunt object that came to hand—and leapt down the stairs, taking them four and five at a time. I burst out onto the street and stopped just off the sidewalk, my
I rose and walked straight for the door. Behind me, I heard Watley begin to rise quickly but then settle back down into his chair. I turned the knob, half-expecting to find myself locked in, and then pulled open the door.
In the hall, I paused and turned back. I waited to see if he’d say anything. He held my gaze. I watched his eyes for any movement … observed his breathing … his skin … any nonverbal response.… “John,” I said quietly. He tilted his head to one side receptively. “I know it’s you. I know it.”
Nothing. The picture of tranquility. His lips curled up into that same smug bastard smile. “You know nothing,” he whispered. I broke eye contact, grabbed hold of the massive door, and slammed it behind me.
* * *
My apartment was more depressing than ever. A tiny cell with a few cans of government-issue food and some cheap liquor. My stained and scratched-up pressboard coffee table. The bed with its never-changed sheets. Rust all over the bathroom. I looked around the place as if seeing it for the first time, as if I had stepped into someone else’s home and thought, How do you live like this? How is this your life?
On top of my newfound loathing of the place, I also didn’t feel safe there. There was no way everything today had been coincidence. You’ll figure it out, Tommy. You’ll figure it out. Always do. Always have, anyway. I muttered some of this out loud; some I repeated in my head as I paced around my little home. I grabbed a bottle of scotch from under the sink and started taking small pulls from it.
My mind was racing but going nowhere. I knew it was a bad plan, that I wasn’t secure in my own place and that I should have my wits about me, but getting a little drunk sounded divine. I had thrown my button-down shirt into a pile in the corner and now stripped off my T-shirt. The cloth stuck to my skin, damp from mist and perspiration, and it took some wriggling and twisting before I was finally free of it and bare chested. My breath came quickly and I stepped before the window and looked out into the gray black evening. My lips parted and eyes blazed, and for a while I felt as if something were about to happen—something outside of me or from within.
I looked over my shoulder at the small room. Nothing, of course. I pressed my forehead against the glass, but all I could see was the faintest outline of the street below in the pale yellow glow of the shitshop. My hands were trembling, and I realized I was still holding the T-shirt balled up in my left fist. I dragged it across my brow and then violently threw it to the floor. After a large gulp of scotch, I slammed the bottle down on the table and returned to the window.
I pushed both palms against the pane, arms raised above me. Slowly I leaned forward until my chest pressed against it too. The cold glass was soothing, comforting even, tangible. My life had been so stable, in its own way, for so long that these few days spent stumbling into the unknown were taking their toll. I didn’t know what to do with myself. Did I just wait and see if Rebecca showed up tomorrow and politely ask what the hell she’d gotten me into? Rebecca whose last name I didn’t know. Becca the lovely chameleon, the frightened lover, the little rich girl …
I pressed the side of my face to the glass. The skin by my right eye stretched and my vision blurred. The world was one half my living room, one half a swirl of yellow and gray. Then … I thought for just a fleeting second I had seen a man wearing a fedora on the street below me looking up. I took in a deep breath and let it out slowly, scanning the haze. A trick of the eye? Must have been …
Then I bolted for the door, grabbing the whiskey bottle—it being the only blunt object that came to hand—and leapt down the stairs, taking them four and five at a time. I burst out onto the street and stopped just off the sidewalk, my
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