The man is just standing there. I occupy my hands with busy-looking laundry work; organizing the different detergents, cleaning out the lint trap, etc. I�m not entirely sure what I ought to do in this sort of situation, but I�m fairly certain that this is far too late a point at which to scream. What if he just laughs?
I could try violence�it seems to work just fine for other people. I could slam the big bottle of Tide at his shins, knock him down, and then again on his head, to stun him. But what if he doesn�t stun? What does one do?
It bothers me that I can�t see his face. I think I would be better equipped to deal with someone who had his face visible. But I can still see the rest of him: long and nondescript black coat, dark hair and dirty shoes. At least I imagine they�re dirty�I can�t see the little bits of dirt on them or anything. I don�t know if you thought that I could...
I�ve moved on to more mundane chores, like picking up and putting down the hamper, playing the role of the distracted washerwoman who always assumes she�s done with her task one or two tasks too soon. I wipe down the top of the washer with a clean rag, and then toss it in with the dirty clothes. I think to myself bitterly that by the time he gets around to killing me the porch will be magnificently clean. Which he is likely to do; I mean, there isn�t really much cause to stand on a person�s laundry table unless you plan on killing them, is there?
I have decided that the only sensible thing to do is open the door and shut it, once, following my weary washerwoman routine once more. The man is still there, so my body just moves back into the porch and I pick up the laundry and, finding nothing else to do, begin to fold it. It might just be my imagination, but I seem to see his dirty shoes (they are very dirty, now that I can see them up close) shift in the most miniscule of manners to avoid the basket I plunk down on the table. Perhaps I plunked it a bit too hard, because the bunch of dried flowers I�d piled on there weeks ago (with the utmost intention to sew into bouquets for my room. Never got around to that. Damn.) jump up and land on the floor, scattering paper thin petals all about the granite. I stare at them, faced with the difficulty of bending down to clean without exposing my back to the man. And then my hands continue to fold, and the petals finish skittering and settle into corners for what will become weeks.
The man has not moved.
I fold, and I sort by color and by whether they are mine or Jon�s. I change my mind midway and sort by type of clothing instead. This is done in silence, and I ponder what will happen when I get to the last item in the pile, which is the tablecloth. Should I do something dramatic?
And then the tablecloth is in my hands, and I stare at the wall for one dumb second, and then the man steps down from the table. It�s just that easy, I notice. His movement is concise and graceful, and he snatches up the other two corners of the tablecloth as he moves off the chair. He folds it with me, but I still can�t see his face. Maybe I don�t even want to see it; maybe that�s why I can�t.
He pulls the tablecloth�s edges too fast, but I manage to get it all neatened by the end. I toss it lightly on the table and my hair falls in my face. And I�m blind.
It�s a feeling of panic, and of stupidity for not cutting my stupid hair, and of terror. Now I can say for sure what it feels like to be really scared, which is another milestone I�ve been meaning to conquer. But right now there�s just what seems like far too many strands of the stupid blonde stuff in my eyes, and I have to do something about it.
I grab it all in one big handful and force it behind my ears, but the man�s disappeared.
The door to the main house is open. Had I left it open?
What will Jon do?
What will I do?