The morning breaks hard and undeniable, like the crack of an eggshell, and I get lazy clothes on and peer out the window. I don�t see his shadow on our stone wall, and his voice is gone from my radio. This might just turn out to be a morning without interruption, without nervous-making Indian men who make you think too much.
Downstairs is ringing and empty, mom probably sleeping in or guiltily hounding the pot-smoking priest. He doesn�t really smoke pot; you just like to say that. I get some cereal together; curl up on the sofa with my bowl on the end table and a blanket on my knees. I read the local and style sections of the paper, delighting in the non-news of corduroy�s resurgence and how a small group of teens a few towns over pushed over an ornate �marble� fountain whose carved statue was not attached to the base. I think they deserved it for being too cheap to get an actual marble fountain, particularly since it was for the grieving family of the boy who was killed three years ago in a drunk driving accident.
I�m nodding a little when I see a man start walking past my window, and I panic unnecessarily. The sofa looks right out to the street, and the man isn�t. Rather, he�s a boy a few years younger than I, with a baseball player�s stark shoulders and a thick blond crew cut. Before I even get to notice the rest of him, I see the dog he�s walking. It�s a setter, the thick red hair grown in for winter already, making it look very slightly puffy, like a down jacket. Around his red neck is a blue leash, the metal clip on the end sparkling slightly in this strange sunlight. The boy has eyes to match and glances up, slowly, as he passes, eyes hitting the small chandelier, the thick rug and me on the sofa at nearly the same time. He gives a smile and then keeps walking, the setter tugging on the leash slightly. This is a nice encounter and I smile accordingly and tether my eyes back to the paper, and I read about a senior citizen who fell and broke his hip while taking out the trash one night. The article is very in-depth and mentions that the man who saved Mr. Whiteby was (according to the learned man) "a Native American or something, maybe I dremt him up. But I would like to let him know that I am eternally thankful to him and that I am in his debt for a long time. Who knows how long I would�ve spent on that sidewalk if he hadn't happened to come along?"
I have a policy of disliking show-offs, especially the ones who are just trying to get my attention. I fold up the newspaper and put it in the recycling bin with the other newspapers, and put my cereal bowl into the dishwasher. I am a precise and tidy person, these actions say. I do not leave inappropriate messes all about my home, because I do not tolerate them. This is the message I hope to send.
Seeing nowhere to go from here, I decide to try and fall asleep again in front of the TV. I flick it on and it�s on Public Access, and there�s a large Lion King mask staring out at me from the TV. Then it lifts up a little and I see a pair of scarred lips, which part and ask me to come down to the pine trees. The voice is warm and liquid, burbling slightly like he�s got something in his throat. I shut off the TV, angrily and shove my feet into slides. If he wants to talk to me so badly, he�ll get to talk to me.
One last thing�I slide the shirt sharp knife my mother uses to cut apples into my coat pocket, with the tip resting on a small pile of tissues. You know what? He will get to talk to me.