The Prowler: Page 99 of My Spiral Notebooks

old woman

2 a.m.

Fog.

Whirling, swirling.

Streetlight.

Lone bat.

Looping, swooping.

Frogs, crickets.

Train whistle, far away.

Radio crackles,

In still, night air.

Prowler complaint.

Noise outside window.

“I’ll take it.”

“10-4.”

“Backup?”

“Negative.”

Front porch light.

Moth. Flittering, fluttering.

Shadows.

Flowerbed.

Weeds.

Window.

Curtain, lace.

Breeze.

Leaves ticking, clicking across weathered floorboards.

Porch swing.

Rusted chain.

Crooked.

Door swings slowly inward.

Just a crack.

Yellow light.

A sliver,

Pours outside.

Tiny face,

Crinkled with days long since passed.

“I heard them again, Officer.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

Wet, anxious eyes.

Faded gray with time.

“They were at the window, like before.”

“I’ll check around back.”

“You’re too kind.”

“I wish my Bill was still here.”

“I know.”

“He’s been gone ten years this week.”

“A good man.”

“Thank you.”

“Coffee?”

“It’s fresh.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“Two sugars and a little cream, right?”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“Be right back.”

Outside.

Flashlight.

Waiting.

Neighbor’s house, dark.

Heating unit, humming.

Rattles, stops.

Quiet.

Owl,

Hoots.

Two minutes.

Kitchen window.

Full coffee pot.

Silver tray.

Cookies.

Cups.

Saucers.

Spoons.

For two.

Screen door,

Creaking.

Thump.

“Everything’s okay.”

“Yes, I do feel better now.”

Warm smells.

Vanilla,

Fresh bread,

Coffee.

“It’s just with Bill gone …”

“I know.”

A glance,

Downward

Wall clock,

Ticking.

A sigh.

A tear.

Silence.

Tick, tick, tick.

“Would you mind if I sat for a minute?”

A sniffle.

“I’m tired, and really shouldn’t drive.”

“How would that look?”

“A cop asleep at the wheel.”

A smile.

Relief.

Just like last night.

And the night before.

And the night before.

At 2 a.m.

Ten years after her Bill passed away.

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