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Lamps
lit up the streets in a golden electric glow with the edges
of everything reflecting white in the wet. The lights were to
show the path home for those out night-wandering. Or, for those
that must work into the late hours and return home in the dark.
Her shift had ended late as the students, artists, and such
that frequent coffeehouses had made the last drips in their
cups last as long as the end of the next page as they each quickly
scribbled ideas to support their personal theories for life.
After all the customers had wandered back to all their beds
did she lock the door of the coffeehouse and begin her own walk
home on the wet streets. A chill was in the air; not very surprising
since the days had only just begun to warm after the winter
cold. She buttoned her coat and stuffed her hands into her pockets.
The smell of wet earth had seeped up from beneath the streets;
her breath left a slight vapor trail behind as she walked. At
the corner of High Street and Kingston Way, she looked at her
watch and compared its time to the clock on the bank building.
Five minutes difference, but that was of little concern. The
only engagement left that day was to return to her flat, empty
and silent.
The rows of houses lining the streets off High Street were lit
by the lamps placed farther apart than in the shopping district.
Each house took on a face in that bit of light. The windows
became eyes to watch; the doors mouths to consume. She shuddered
and pushed her hands farther into her coat pockets as if she
could disappear into those at will. Against the faces of the
houses, her steps sounded out into the dark. Her mind concentrated
effort to a single objective: getting home and into bed. She
could have closed her eyes and known she was still walking only
by listening to her own steps against the wet pavement. At the
corner she stopped to look at her watch again. The sound of
the steps continued. A glance behind down the dark street showed
she was alone. She began walking again, faster this time. The
sound of the other steps stayed out of time with her own, eventually
mingling to form one steady rhythm. The houses watched the street
with their darkened windows.
At the next corner she stopped and turned again to attempt to
catch sight of anybody making the other steps. But the streets
were still empty, and the other steps still continued. Screaming
would have accomplished little since the inhabitants of the
town were asleep behind the face of their houses, bundled under
blankets and locked behind doors for the night. And those that
would have heard her scream were not the sort to offer help.
She began to run as she turned the corner, her shoes scuffling
on the wet pavement. The other steps also quickened pace. Past
the grocer and past the shop on the next corner; she stopped
in a doorway set off from the pavement. All was quiet, aside
from the sound of her own breathing. Her own breath hung heavy
in the air. The other footsteps had ended.
She stepped out from the doorway and looked to her left and
right. The street was still empty. She chose each of her steps
carefully to walk as silently as possible across the street
to her apartment. The street was noiseless. She reached the
stoop to her apartment; wet like everything else that night.
She put her key in the lock. Steps hit the pavement, echoing
and fading away from her. She opened the door quickly, let herself
in, shut it again, and fastened the deadlock and chain. She
left the lights off in her apartment and closed the blinds.
She sat on the sofa and pulled a blanket around herself. The
television soundlessly flickered its blue light against the
walls of the living room. She set her face into the crook of
her arm, trying to cover as much of her body as possible.
The next night she was working at the coffeehouse late shift
again. She glanced between the time on her watch and the clock
by the door. She eyed it suspiciously, fearful as the time crept
to closing. He was back in the shop, the one that had caught
her eye, sitting in a corner reading a book. She was too distracted
by her fright from the night before to pay him attention. And
her inattention left him giving her little attention in return.
She would not have talked to him if the urgency of the late
hours had not forced her. As the customers left, she went around
and wiped the tables. Eventually, every table had been wiped
save for his.
--You'll have to go now. We're closed.
--Oh, I'm sorry. I am afraid I did not notice the time.
She glanced between her watch and the clock again. --Yes, well,
it's still time for you to go. I have clean-up still.
--Doesn't the shop usually stay open later?
--Not tonight. Listen, I have things to do. I need to wipe this
table.
--Things to do here?
--I have to clean up the kitchen still too. It's getting late.
--Late? I suppose. The warmer nights have been keeping me awake.
I stay up late reading, or walk the stre--
--Someone followed me home last night from here. I'm not too
keen to have it happen again. That's why I am closing early.
--Did you see this person?
--I heard steps. They ran if I ran, or stopped when I stopped.
--Oh... that frightened you?
--Yes. I nearly thought I would die.
--Perhaps it was an accident.
--Accidents don't happen like that. This was deliberate.
--Maybe it was a friend.
--Friends don't follow friends silently. They talk, like friends
do.
--If you are frightened, I could walk you home.
She laughed and walked to the other tables to put the chairs
up.
--I don't mean anything by it. I don't have anything else to
do.
--I still need to wipe your table.
The street lamps cast the same light as the night before; everything
reflected white in the wet. She walked close to his side, but
the distance seemed larger due to the silence. She took frequent
glances behind herself and at her watch.
--Your hand is clenched. What are you so worried about?
--I'm not worried; I just don't want a repeat of last night.
I felt so alone.
--What do you plan to do tomorrow night and the night after
that? The night won't wait for you to be safely in your apartment
before it begins.
--Perhaps I won't be alone. There's no shame in finding someone
to be with you for times like this. It's not the night that
frightened me; it was whatever used the night to follow me.
--I can protect you.
--I don't need protecting.
--No, no. I'm sorry. I meant I was here for company.
--I don't need company either.
--If you were as scared as you say you were last night, I suppose
you did then.
--How do you want me to answer that? I'm not going to agree
with you, but I'm not going to disagree. Could you just walk
me home?
They continued down the streets, past the corners of the night
before. Both their steps stayed in time, hitting against the
pavement together, sounding off the faces of the houses. The
houses kept their silent expressions and stared at the scene
out of boredom more than curiosity. A breeze took the leaves
left from autumn from the gutters and other forgotten places,
blowing them down the street. The leaves scrambled against the
pavement and struck against the backs of their legs. She turned
her head back for a glance, and then down to her legs.
--Those were just leaves. Relax since we are nearly there, and
no one is following you.
--No, no one is there. Rotten nature, scaring me like that.
How do you know where I live?
--Didn't you tell me? You must have.
--I suppose I did.
As they continued walking, she left more space between them.
She could not recall telling him her address. The difference
between walking home with someone and being followed home by
someone was that this time her companion stayed in her sight.
The night was for hiding in its dark; whatever light or clarity
that did shine was from the street lamps or a stray car headlight.
Security was easier to find after the initial scare--it was
the safety of locked doors.
At her doorstep he said goodbye. She walked to the door, key
in hand. She turned to thank him, but the street was empty.
He had disappeared from the light of the street lamp. She heard
the footsteps hitting again on the pavement and the sound battering
against the houses. It was all too familiar. A chill from the
wind, the night, or the fright passed through her coat and body.
She let herself in the apartment and slammed the door. The lamp
light reflected in the windows of the houses like a knowing
wink.
| Matthew
Patrick, May 1999 |
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