Hello?

by Ian C Smith

I jerk upright, awakened by a close voice. Its eerie echo rings through my silent awareness. Leaving the light off, the light I read by when jangled nerves defeat sleep, I sidle from sheets, my thoughts, combative and fugitive, electric. A man’s sotto voce, intimate, smoothly spoken, Hello? After that, nothing.  I steal past walls, wardrobe, opened doors, picking up my ready boots, keys, wallet, on the way. An intruder? Not inside my bedroom as first thought. Beyond the window? This middle of the day awake in the middle of the night is nothing new.

Earlier, I exercised in scoured light, tattoos covered, running rain-logged streets, wheeling abrupt 360s, scanning, always thinking, always, as I do on each haphazardly changed route, sometimes imagining my body’s chalked outline fenced by witches’ hats. Easing the front door open, I hold my breath. Empty footpaths. No different parked vehicles. Scrunched scoria leading to the back yard would announce nocturnal visitors, so too, strategic chimes on the side gate. Boots on, I tread softly, feeling I waste my time, time short now, mind a dark sermon. So much for tiptoeing too far on the wild side.

No shadow shifts. No sound, not a sob. Unlocking the back door, I re-enter my lone existence, senses stretched. Bedroom window shut, it had to be inside. In this utter stillness I feel no one was here. My unfinished jigsaw puzzle, a man outside a whitewashed cottage by a fragrant harbour fondling a dog’s soft ears, sits on the table. He probably jokes with folk at the local inn, gathers accoutrements. My few photographs they told me not to take, mostly kept unseen, stare accusingly in the streetlamps’ reflected refulgence.

That voice still a flirtatious earworm, its suave tone encouraging now, I log on, too awake to rest. Checking emails, these severely restricted, my mind wanders to when I tangoed, when beginnings never knew endings, sifting memory for joy when my name was different. Gravid with guilt, I cede to logic, wishing with savage hope to trawl back what prowled my dreams—night dreams my salon now, the abandoned, some faceless—when I shattered fitful sleep talking aloud, long to see once more who was greeted when I said, Hello?