Has it ever occurred to you how easy it would be to stalk someone?
Or, perhaps, to start stalking them. The thought first came to me as I was taking my usual route home from work. Night was beginning to fall, and the stars – tiny pinpricks, jewelling the sky – glittered dimly above. The horizon was drenched with an azure that became teal, grew into cobalt, and then faded, finally, into the ultramarine of dusk. The thought planted itself firmly in my head as I wandered through the street, and with each step, it germinated, split open, and sprouted leaves.
Each day, I walk the same route. Down the same alley, shabby and dark; through the same verdant park, trees thick with leaves; and, finally, across the same residential street, where the houses are all redbrick and high-windowed. Each streetlamp is placed the exact number of millimetres from the preceding one. There is no litter, no dog mess, not even a stray leaf. You'd be forgiven for thinking that it was the sort of street built for a movie set, never designed for human habitation.
So how long would it take for someone to note the route I took? The times at which I passed the park's grand oak tree, the exact hour as to when I step-shuffled past the low wall at the mouth of the cul-de-sac? Not long at all. But the same could be said for anyone.
And it is on this street that I first see her.
***
Her, lamps burning where the curtains do not draw, because she needs the natural light.
Her, with her hands on her hips, blue coveralls hanging loosely off her svelte body.
Her, auburn hair that must be waist-length when it is let down, but is presently tied in a messy bun, a crown blazing against the rays of the dying sun.
Her, I think. She could be the one.
***
Or she would be the one, but she doesn't seem to leave. Each day, I glance up at the house, hoping to see her at the front door. It is tall and polished, as though it has sprung up overnight, as yet untouched by the filth of human life. Ivy grows thickly around the door, weaves its way up towards the windows that are polished to such a sheen that I can see my own reflection. The grass around each paving stone is cut so neatly that each strand may well have been chopped individually. It is no wonder that she doesn't leave a house so fine.
I suspect that the reason she doesn't leave, though, is because of what I see her doing. Every window is bathed in darkness, the curtains tightly closed, all light snatched from the room entirely. Except one. Ground floor, on the left, huge bay window flanked by two casements, each allowing only a snatch of the canvas to be visible. But the main window displays the positive space in all its glory. A huge white wall, splashed with colour. A herd of wild horses sprint, their coats shiny with oil, towards a great olive expanse. A robin's egg sky is lit by a daffodil sun. And it is on the sun that the subject of this sublime scene is currently working.
***
Sometimes she stands, tiptoed, arms upstretched, for the tip of her fluffy brush to flirt with the hard edge of the skirting board. I see her move with all the grace of a dancer, pirouetting from one part of the wall to another, daubing her scene with a new stroke, a fast sweep, the wall slick and wet.
But in equal measure, she sometimes stays hunched, bent double, the delicate tap of her brush making her shoulders shake as though she is sobbing. Once, I arrived at my vantage point and saw her lying on the floor, limbs askew, as though making a snow angel. I'd done a double take, fearing quite suddenly that she was dead. But then I saw her glassy eyes snap open. Seafoam green, rimmed with red, the type that would easily cozen out a love confession. And I knew that she was safe.
***
Once – by now, in the dead heat of mid-August – I see her undress. Only once. It is light outside, and perhaps she thinks that the glare of the hot sun means that nobody can see in. She strips off the top half of her coveralls, wrapping them in a thick knot at her waist. I see the pure white of her bra from the back, the few strands of fiery hair escaping from her bun. She turns her head, surveying her work, and I spy the fleshy pink of her tongue as it darts out to moisten the tip of the brush. The sight of her milky white skin, dappled with freckles, makes my own tingle.
***
But now, on my approach, I know that something is different.
The lights are off.
The curtains are closed.
Is her masterpiece finished? I have no idea, and no way to know. My window into her life, small as it was, is closed to me this day. Just as I am thinking about when – if – it will open again, my eyes register another change.
Her.
Her, by the door.
Her, trussed up in a thick blue overcoat, tied at the waist with a knot solid enough to knock you out.
Her, I think. She is all I think, now.
At first, it appears she is just crossing the road—she cannot truly mean to approach me—but her trajectory quickly becomes apparent. Her face has a vague, sympathetic look.
I smile.
She places her hand on my arm – the universal, comforting greeting, from one woman to another – and says, tone short –
'I see you pass by all the time. And I need to tell you. Someone is following you.'
END