through those slats, waiting to see if she would somehow sense
his presence.
She looked around the living room, and for a moment seemed to look right at him through the door. Simon’s breath caught in his throat. He swallowed and it stung. His neck was still
swollen.
She pulled her purse off her arm and tossed it onto the back of the couch, and then grabbed a remote from the couch’s arm. She clicked on the television – a local news program. Some
woman with short blonde hair was talking about the Los Angeles Department of Water and Power dumping plastic balls into the Ivanhoe Reservoir in order to protect it from the sun’s rays and
keep birds from shitting in it.
What’s your name? Simon wondered.
The woman muted the television and looked around.
‘Jeremy?’
Had he said it aloud? He didn’t think he had. She couldn’t have heard him.
Maybe he had.
‘You’re going crazy, Samantha,’ she said to herself. She turned the television’s volume back on, watched the news for a moment or two longer, and then set the remote back
down on the arm of the couch and walked away. She disappeared into a hallway.
Her name was Samantha.
Simon wondered what it was like to live with her. He wondered what it would be like to look into the eyes of a woman like that and have her tell you she loves you; he wondered what it would be
like to tell her you love her, too.
He pushed open the closet door and stepped out into the living room. He closed the closet door behind him.
He walked softly across the hardwood floor and once he’d nearly reached the hallway he stopped. He leaned forward and looked around the corner. At the end of the hallway was an open door,
and on the other side was Samantha. She was sitting on a toilet, her skirt bunched up around her waist and panties stretched like a rubber band between her knees. She was reading a magazine with an
actress on its glossy cover.
‘Samantha,’ he said in a low whisper. ‘Your name is Samantha.’
He walked to the front door, grabbed the doorknob. He turned it carefully and pulled the door open – pausing momentarily when it squeaked, glancing back over his shoulder, seeing nothing,
and continuing – and then he stepped out into the early-evening sunlight.
He walked toward the street, looking around, feeling paranoia flowing cold through his veins, throbbing at his temples like a headache.
Samantha’s car was in the driveway now, parked on the right side, a dark blue Mercedes, perhaps the same year as Simon’s Volvo, but in much better shape, paint new, well-oiled
leather interior uncracked by the sun.
He walked past it, reached the street, slid onto his torn-up driver’s seat, and tried to slam the door shut behind him, but it banged against the metal seatbelt clip and bounced open
again. He grabbed the clip and pulled the belt over his chest and waist and latched it, then tried the door a second time. This time it stayed closed. He started his car, turned it around, and
drove down the street the same way he had come.
The two blonde girls in the flower-print dresses with red ribbons in their hair were still in their yard. Simon glanced at them as he drove, and though he might have been mistaken, he
would’ve sworn they were taking turns poking a dead cat with a stick.
He pushed through the smudged glass doors and into the lobby of the Filboyd Apartments carrying a plastic bag from the hardware store he’d stopped at on the way home. He
headed up the dark stairwell toward his apartment, smelling stale urine as he went. At the top of the stairs, he saw his landlord hadn’t yet gotten someone to clean up the graffito painted
there.
it still said, somewhat impatiently.
When he turned left at the head of the stairs, he saw Robert standing in the corridor by his front door. His arms were crossed and he was leaning against the wall.
Simon’s stomach clenched as if squeezed by a fist. Why was he here?
After a moment: ‘Hi.’
‘I got a flat
his presence.
She looked around the living room, and for a moment seemed to look right at him through the door. Simon’s breath caught in his throat. He swallowed and it stung. His neck was still
swollen.
She pulled her purse off her arm and tossed it onto the back of the couch, and then grabbed a remote from the couch’s arm. She clicked on the television – a local news program. Some
woman with short blonde hair was talking about the Los Angeles Department of Water and Power dumping plastic balls into the Ivanhoe Reservoir in order to protect it from the sun’s rays and
keep birds from shitting in it.
What’s your name? Simon wondered.
The woman muted the television and looked around.
‘Jeremy?’
Had he said it aloud? He didn’t think he had. She couldn’t have heard him.
Maybe he had.
‘You’re going crazy, Samantha,’ she said to herself. She turned the television’s volume back on, watched the news for a moment or two longer, and then set the remote back
down on the arm of the couch and walked away. She disappeared into a hallway.
Her name was Samantha.
Simon wondered what it was like to live with her. He wondered what it would be like to look into the eyes of a woman like that and have her tell you she loves you; he wondered what it would be
like to tell her you love her, too.
He pushed open the closet door and stepped out into the living room. He closed the closet door behind him.
He walked softly across the hardwood floor and once he’d nearly reached the hallway he stopped. He leaned forward and looked around the corner. At the end of the hallway was an open door,
and on the other side was Samantha. She was sitting on a toilet, her skirt bunched up around her waist and panties stretched like a rubber band between her knees. She was reading a magazine with an
actress on its glossy cover.
‘Samantha,’ he said in a low whisper. ‘Your name is Samantha.’
He walked to the front door, grabbed the doorknob. He turned it carefully and pulled the door open – pausing momentarily when it squeaked, glancing back over his shoulder, seeing nothing,
and continuing – and then he stepped out into the early-evening sunlight.
He walked toward the street, looking around, feeling paranoia flowing cold through his veins, throbbing at his temples like a headache.
Samantha’s car was in the driveway now, parked on the right side, a dark blue Mercedes, perhaps the same year as Simon’s Volvo, but in much better shape, paint new, well-oiled
leather interior uncracked by the sun.
He walked past it, reached the street, slid onto his torn-up driver’s seat, and tried to slam the door shut behind him, but it banged against the metal seatbelt clip and bounced open
again. He grabbed the clip and pulled the belt over his chest and waist and latched it, then tried the door a second time. This time it stayed closed. He started his car, turned it around, and
drove down the street the same way he had come.
The two blonde girls in the flower-print dresses with red ribbons in their hair were still in their yard. Simon glanced at them as he drove, and though he might have been mistaken, he
would’ve sworn they were taking turns poking a dead cat with a stick.
He pushed through the smudged glass doors and into the lobby of the Filboyd Apartments carrying a plastic bag from the hardware store he’d stopped at on the way home. He
headed up the dark stairwell toward his apartment, smelling stale urine as he went. At the top of the stairs, he saw his landlord hadn’t yet gotten someone to clean up the graffito painted
there.
it still said, somewhat impatiently.
When he turned left at the head of the stairs, he saw Robert standing in the corridor by his front door. His arms were crossed and he was leaning against the wall.
Simon’s stomach clenched as if squeezed by a fist. Why was he here?
After a moment: ‘Hi.’
‘I got a flat
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