Camera

by Leyla Guirand

The familiar thud of the heavy wooden door awakens me from my troubled slumber.

She gets home at around six-thirty every evening and heads straight to the bedroom, where she carefully undresses. One by one, she takes off all of her fancy work garments and hangs them in an enormous closet with four Venetian doors. It's hard to see into the closet but—oh, the possibilities.

I can imagine her in a corset bra and a shiny pair of spiked high heels. In the winter, she sheds her furry hat and dark wool jacket. Next, she undoes the endless laces of her boots. After that, her tailored blouse and skirt slide off her silken skin.

Then finally, after rolling down her pantyhose with immaculate attention, she stands at the dresser naked for a few moments, as she chooses her pajamas. I get a view of her backside. Her milky breasts point into the mirror and sway, as she rummages through the drawers. She sips an unknown beverage with a large chunk of jagged ice and places it on top of a square coaster. There is no color.

 Reasoning eludes me as I observe my inner child within her. Hubby's face shines with superficial amusement, a charlatan. Still, they seem to enjoy each other— monkeying around, dawdling, dancing, talking, and teasing—all the pleasantries of intimacy.

The corners of her mouth move up and down thoughtfully, but no sound. I wonder if there is a way to convey that the landlord knows about the secret box in the nightstand. He seems to have an affinity, as does she, for the painting of a woman smelling lilacs in a private garden. Often, before too long, he looks up at me and I give him a wave. He returns to his birdhouse in the courtyard, leaving no trace.

 On most Saturdays, she marches in and out of the bedroom all day long with the feather duster and the vacuum, tidying up, changing clothes, folding laundry, primping the sheets and pillows.

It gets chillier and chillier outside. Sunday evenings are like the sweetest candy because she curls up, scantily clad, in the bed and talks to her lover on the phone for an hour, after her husband leaves for work. There is no mistaking the buoyancy in her gestures, nor the deflation when it all goes away. It’s during these times that I almost feel sorrow. I reminisce on what might have been.

But compassion, like so many other redeemable attributes, is short-lived. I witness something even more delectable so.

As night falls on her beloved show, instead of preparing for the phone call, it rather occurs as though she is making up for a guest. It has just become spring, that time of year when the lusty wind spritzes through open windows, and we can feel Christ’s travails in our yearnings.

With conviction, he appears: the intruding, frigid shadow of a stranger. But the warmth and tenderness she so exhales and anticipates is not there. It doesn’t exist! Why does she fool herself with these immense pipe dreams? Who is she pretending to be?

And so, with spiraling focus I watch him approach her. I watch through the fractures with unapologetic glee. Igniting, writhing, anxiety. Oh, to see the fruition her hubby dearest could never produce inside, the starlight bleeding through every shift, every shake. I hope it was all worth it.