Vignette 9
Neighbor.
“You are not alone.”
The words are writ small and straight across a yellow post-it note on his door. He’s been staring at it for five minutes, completely unsure what to make of it. Down the hall, a door opens and James’ neighbor steps out, an unlit cigarette in his mouth. James takes the note, unlocks the door and when he’s safely on the other side, locks the deadbolt and hooks the chain.
He sticks the note to his table and unpacks his groceries. It always amazes him how much less food costs now, how much lighter the bags. He eats more instant food now than he did when Amy was still here. He likes to cook, but he hates being the only one to eat his cooking.
When he’s done, there’s a strange silence in the house. The light whirring of the fridge, the occasional creak as someone walks above his head. Somewhere, down the hall, a cat complains about the sorts of things cats complain about.
He likes the quiet. Too much noise sets off his headaches. There’s something about the expectation of noise that pulls at him, though. He’s waiting for a voice, a rustle of movement, a door opening quietly or her feet shuffling across the floor.
It’s been three months. He berates himself about it sometimes, not being over it yet. He can’t put it behind him. Thinking about it, his stomach fills with fear, his fingers shake, he sweats. He’s learned to hate her name, dread thinking about her, but he can’t stop himself.
The drugs help, a little.
There is a little bottle on his bedside, one pill for every day in the month, taken with food. Sometimes he can make himself stop thinking about it, stop the anxiety from welling up inside him. It lurks in the corners, though, waiting for him to slip up. He knows that without them, he’d be dead already. Sometimes he wonders if that would have been better. He hopes they find the cure for heartbreak soon. It’ll probably come shortly after the cure for love.
“You are not alone.” He stares at the note, trying to divine some hidden meaning from the words. He boils some cup ramen, eats, and takes his pill, then goes to sleep.
****
The first thing she notices is that he puts the note on the ta
ble. He doesn’t throw it out. He doesn’t crumple it up or search for whoever may have left it. He sticks it to the table and puts his groceries away. When he’s done, he stares at the note, and the strangest expressions do battle across his face: relief, sadness, hope, defeat.
He goes through his nightly routine, but he’s early. Usually, he’ll stay up for a few hours, chatting with whichever girl happens to be online at the time. Usually, he’ll jerk off to Asian porn, take a shower, dry himself in his room. Usually, he’ll lay in bed with the lights on, staring at the pictures of Amy he has taped to his ceiling and cry.
Tonight he doesn’t cry.
She puts her camera down, lets the blinds close. She notes, and not for the first time, the dent her observations have made in them. They slope into a hill near the middle, not quite enough to see through, but enough to tell she’s been watching out the window for a long time. What’s it been, three years?
She goes to bed, and misses Amy nearly as much as James does.
The song is called “Neighbor,” and is by Mother Mother. It’s from their first album, Touch Up, which you should buy. You should also buy their second album, and every album that they ever produce.
The image I took from Corbis. I don’t actually know what Corbis does, but check it out and if you happen to need something that they do, have them do it for you. They’re a marketing or graphic design firm or something.
