When it is Dark – by Sabha G.

I only like to read the Sunday paper.  It’s not like I don’t have time to read it any other day of the week.  I’m just not that interested.  Sure, news is news.  But I look at it like the package deal.  The calendar section.  The funnies.  The cable listings.  Coupons to clip.  The opinion of the common man.  Editorials to line my birdcage.  If I had one.
For me, it all revolves around the walk.  Yes, the walk.  I get dressed for the security of it all.  I throw on my overcoat, my boots, my hat.  The one with the wide brim.  I expect it to be cold, but there are other ways to dress.  Yes, I know that, but I’ve got my reasons.
It’s all about the shadow.  So I mold my silhouette to my liking.  Pepper it with mystique enough till I feel above myself.  Impenetrable.  Something sinister.  I coordinate my frame against the lamplight until I have a tall dark figure walking beside me.  An oblique gentleman.  Harry Lime strolling down the sewers of Austria.  I look at him and nod.  We have an understanding.
I leave only when it is dark.  Usually ten-thirty, sometimes eleven, sometimes midnight, I walk alone.  Desolate.  I defy fear simply because I couldn’t be more comfortable.  Sure, I’m probably asking for something.  Maybe I am.  I’m just aching for that surprise around the corner.
But all I get are the shadows.  The street lamps distort perception, and I let them do their work.  The trees become wraiths.  Apparitions perhaps, but I know what they are.  I know better.  Sometimes a dog will bark.  A car will pass.  But for the most part, I am left undisturbed.  I look through windows and walk on.  People look back.  I know what they are thinking.  And they fear that.
I suppose I could walk north, to the security of a well-lit boulevard, a more opulent neighborhood, but I like to tend to the other way.  I walk south until my street ends, then west, then south again, until I reach my destination.  An avenue that cuts through the cross streets diagonally.  Nothing is more disturbing than that that tips the balance.  And I walk onward, watching my settings decay before me.
Across the street, I inspect him as he stands behind the window, behind his register.  He stands as he always does, still as anything.  I could never understand how anyone could do nothing so well.  Effortlessly.  I would probably need a book to spend the night away, but he always seems to find comfort in just standing.  In just staring.
I have always found him repulsive.  His filthy countenance.  His swarthiness.  The composition of his face with all its intersecting lines.  If you dare to look, there is something there that gets to you.  The eyes.  That stare is nothing less than demonic.  Yet, his face is rather polar.  In entirety he is not so fearsome.  Discomforting maybe, repulsive yes, but his face is rather composed in a way.  Almost balanced.  Almost.  You see, he has this smirk.  A grin that is somewhat consoling.  Cherubic in a way.  Then again, the devil does thrive on the power of seduction.  A fallen angel, perhaps.  Tempting, but not worth it.
I’m used to him by now.  Call it a routine.  A weekly call.  I open that door only to have my defenses removed by those infernal fluorescent lights.  So I pretend to ignore him.  I walk with purpose and direction past him to the fridges lining the back wall.  Then I relax.  I let my guard down.  I let him in.  I make my selection, then I take my time, contemplating the array of choices I tend not to take.  I stroll through the aisles, examining cookies and candy bars and magazines.  I ponder a shelf displaying cigars and pipe tobacco.  Bottles of liquor.  And I let him watch me, like I always do.  But I touch nothing.  And he knows that.
I simply approach the counter.  Kneeling with my back facing him I pick up a paper.  The Sunday morning edition.  It’s practically Monday, but he doesn’t seem to mind I guess.  I suppose I don’t either.  I’m always playing catch up in one way or the other that I can’t really discriminate between tomorrow and yesterday.  If there is a difference, things haven’t changed much.  I sure haven’t noticed.
So I let him ring me up.  A paper and a thirty-two ounce Mango Madness.  The usual.  He smiles at me but does not speak.  Three-eleven, I know.  I place my change on the counter.  But I avoid eye contact.  Not that I don’t want to look.  I simply want to be predictable.  I watch the counter, letting the brim of my hat hide my face.  And I take my items and leave.  It is a choice we have made.  We have an understanding.  He smiles.  And I don’t look.

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