She Had Her Dog With Her
Wolfa

 

I saw her late one night when I was out walking. She had her dog with her. I recognized her immediately, even though she was one of the residents of the apartment building I saw only rarely. It was the dog, unmistakable, that gave her away. Not many people have dogs like that. He was a huge harlequin Great Dane, white with black blotches.

The dog rumbled deep in its chest and she tugged it back, laughing apologetically. She smiled at me politely and kept on, walking out of the orange pool of light and into the dark. I stood there for a long time looking after her, wondering what she was doing out in the dark. Hardly anyone is out at night on the island. Usually, I am all alone, drifting in and out of the wells of blackness beneath the seagrape trees.

That night was when I first took an interest in her.

***

It was a small building, and gossiping about the neighbors was a great source of pleasure for the residents. There was the old lady with the many cats, the single mom with the little boys, the college student with the ridiculously souped up Jetta. There were the odd couples and the token gay couple. This one was a lecher, that one a dance teacher, the fellow round the corner dove for sunken treasure, the girl on the top floor had a great big dog, and I, well, I was a nonentity. It was a fairly amicable little community, people watched each other�s dogs as well as each other�s kids. The first time I saw it, I knew I had to live there. I was drawn to it in some way.

For a long time I was content to simply observe the neighbors from afar, gathering a little bit of information here, a little there. I�ve always been patient. I can wait for years if necessary. By the time I finally realized it was the girl I was drawn to, I almost felt as if I knew the people like family, like my own flesh and blood. I knew their heartbreaks and their disappointments and their favorite perfumes. I was so close to them I could almost imagine I felt affection for them. When I zeroed in on the girl, though, they faded into the background. I�m afraid I have been accused of having somewhat of a one-track, predatory mind.

The apartment next to the girl�s was empty and it was easy enough for me to sneak in the next day. I was delighted to find it in a gentle, almost picturesque, state of decay. Walls bare of mirrors and pictures, the few pieces of solid furniture covered in dusty sheets. The large windows were grimed over and let in a weak, gray light. I felt immediately at home there and settled down to wait until she returned from work.

Finally I heard her at the door, heard the dog barking in greeting. The walls were thin and I strained my ears to catch every little sound; her footsteps, the thump of her setting something down, the rustle of her clothes, her breathing, the rush of her blood. I concentrated hard on the sounds of her next door and on my memory of her smell. I knew her smell so well. The faint odor of the potpourri she used to mask her cigarettes and the dog, her coconut shampoo, her deodorant, a slight trace of clean sweat and the citrus scented perfume she loved so much but usually forgot to put on.

I held her scent and her sounds so clearly in my mind that soon the walls began to melt and I could see through, dimly, into her apartment. The girl, dressed in the clothes I�d seen her in this morning, and the dog I�d studied so carefully in the past were the only bright objects in the room. As she moved around and I heard the noises she made the room beyond the melting wall began to come into focus. She kicked off her shoes and one of them thumped against the leg of a table � the coffee table. Then the distinctive sucking sound of a refrigerator door being opened � and there was the kitchen. The clink of a glass � the cabinet � and then against wood � the coffee table � the sudden sigh of beleaguered springs and then a very human sigh � her sitting down on the couch, shoes off, relaxing, with a nice cup of� well, something, anyways. I echoed her sigh and leaned forward as if to touch her, reaching a hand towards the melting wall.

The cool, dusty plaster stopped me and broke my concentration, the illusion shattering. I slipped silently out of the abandoned apartment, eager for the night to fall, and mentally filing away the layout of her apartment in case I should need it later on.

***

At full dark I hid among the seagrape trees far back from the sidewalk where I saw her walking her dog. It was the height of summer and the seagrapes were rotting on the ground. They had a strangely exhilarating smell, rich and sour and winey. I ate one once and it tasted both salty and sweet, a combination of flavors I thoroughly enjoy.

I was lost in dreamy thoughts of food when I heard her coming up the path, fallen leaves rustling under her feet. I waited, tense and eager, just to catch a glimpse of her. Finally she came into view, wearing sensible Florida clothes � shorts and a tank top. But the dog, that contemptible dog, ruined the moment by letting out a bellow and lunging for me. The girl nearly lost hold of his leash and had to haul him back, berating him. She could not see me in the dark beneath the trees and assumed he was after a cat.

I was furious with the dog. I had longed so much for the aesthetic pleasure of seeing her walk by, of seeing her muscles work. I had to settle for slinking closer to the sidewalk to watch her walking away from me. You don�t have such a good view of the legs from the back, and it�s the legs that interest me the most. The way the muscles slide over one another, the stretch of tendons and ligaments, the ripples in the skin. But from the back I could see her taut neck and the way her shoulders moved. I must confess that I am endlessly fascinated by the human body � the perfect human animal.

I moved further back beneath the trees and waited for her to circle around and pass by again on her way back home. This time the dog did not bark but simply growled threateningly. The girl ignored him and did not pause, and much to my delight I was able to observe her from the side, smooth and natural.

To my annoyance she did not go walking at night again for almost a week, but as the days passed she began to venture out into the dark with more and more regularity. As I know well, the charms of the night can be addictive. I imagine she felt calm and at peace as she slipped quietly through the occasional pools of light. I imagine she felt secure in the warm darkness. Walking at night is a sort of meditation. There are few cars and very few people, no noises and no distracting sights. You are all alone in the world with your thoughts. She was all alone with me and my hunger, though she didn�t know it.

By Fall she walked at night practically every day. I watched from a distance, far enough away that her dog couldn�t smell me. I was happy with the leisurely tempo of the hunt and had no real plans to step it up any time soon. I imagined our romance to be a stately dance of stars in the cosmos; I, polite and quiet and cold, dancing through the dark light-years away from her effulgence.

***

And then one day while I was sleeping the ambulance came and took her away. For the first time, I spoke to one of the neighbors. She was horrified and said that it was the boyfriend that did it, broke her nose and everything. There was blood all down the stairs. My contempt for the worthless dog deepened. The neighbor agreed � what good is a dog that doesn�t protect you? I went up the stairs first, the rich reek of her blood filling my head, to see where it happened. Outside the apartment, the neighbor said. I stood before her unremarkable door and inhaled the scent of the violence.

For the first time in too long, I felt anger. She was my angel, immaculate and pure on a pedestal I had built for her, and I wanted to be the one to tear her down. With an effort I put my anger aside. Revenge could come later. We would hunt him down together, when it was done. She would love it. I went to visit her in the hospital. Hospitals. I hate them. It�s hard for me to enter them, so very horribly bright and stinking of blood, blood, blood underneath the disinfectant.

Once I got over my discomfort, it wasn�t too hard for me to find out where she was and get in to see her undetected. People don�t notice me when I don�t want them to. She was asleep and, to my relief, not too badly harmed. Her face was puffy, swollen, and bandaged, but nothing was broken but her nose. I left.

The thought of her dying before I came to her upset me terribly. It was an unpleasant and definitely unwelcome sensation, and one I hadn�t felt in years without number. She was changing me. I wondered idly if I loved her. Maybe. It was enough that I felt that strange bond with her. I knew, with an unshakable certainty, that she would complement me perfectly. We would make an excellent team.

She was back in her apartment soon enough, now with a female roommate keeping her company and a restraining order against the boyfriend. The boyfriend moved up north a couple weeks after the incident, and, much to my delight, she resumed her nightly walks. I was careful to be very discreet when observing her. I did not want the dog to bark and frighten her.

***

When winter set in she began going for walks on the beach early in the morning. I could understand why she had waited until the temperatures dropped. During the summer the air was thick and hot even at night. It never bothered me, of course, but ordinary people leaving the comfort of their AC began to glow with greasy perspiration within five minutes.

I felt a little nervous following her to the beach. It was easy to sink down among the sand dunes and lie there like a snake, watching her, but the gleaming white sand was a little unnerving. I also did not like the ocean. I do not like large amounts of moving water and I definitely do not like the way the ocean stretches on and on into forever. It makes me dizzy. But there was undeniably something magical about the way she looked walking across the sparkling sand, framed by the endless sea and the endless sky.

After she had passed I waited and watched the sky lighten. When it was entirely pink shot with gold, I slipped away. I�m afraid that the sun has a sort of fatal attraction for me. I love the twilight hours, when I feel a little closer to the day.

I guess it�s a little ironic that I live on an island off the coast of Florida, seeing as I hate the ocean and the sun is certainly not my friend. But I love it here. There�s something about a place where colonies of rats live in palm trees that appeals to my sense of humor.

The younger ones among us prefer to live up north, where the winter nights are long. They do not appreciate the pleasures of a leisurely life and want to exercise their new abilities as much as possible. I do not know how I survived that fast life as long as I did.

Young ones. I wonder how many there are now. Not many, surely, I haven�t seen another of us of any age in nearly a hundred years.

***

One morning I was sitting in the little park behind the apartment, reading, when she spoke to me. I had been so deeply into the book I didn�t notice her. Besides, she was never out that early in the morning. I was so startled I nearly dropped the book.

�Hi,� she repeated, smiling at me.

--How can you see me? �Hi,� I said awkwardly, closing the book.

�How can you see to read? The sun�s not even up yet.�

--It is up, you just can�t see the light yet. �I have good eyes?� I haven�t felt so stupid around a girl at any time within memory. She is special.

�Doesn�t the cold bother you?� She is wearing a sweater, I see, and sweatpants.

--No. Never. �It�s not really that cold.�

�I�m sorry, I was just curious.� She cocked her head. �I never see you around much. My name�s Lucia.�

--I know. �My name�s Tucker.� It�s not.

�Well, nice to meet you,� Lucia said, giving me a little wave as she walked off. �Good luck with Camus, there.�

I stared after her, astonished. No one sees me when I don�t want to be seen.

--How do you see me, Lucia? Do you see through me?

***

A few days later I walk down the sidewalk at night in plain view. I want to cross paths with her, and I get my wish. The dog lunges at me, growling, and Lucia hauls him back. He quiets reluctantly.

I laugh. �I guess your dog doesn�t like me.�

Lucia laughs also. �I guess not. You must have a cat.�

--No. �That must be it.�

We say our polite goodbyes and move off in different directions. When I am out of her sight I slip back into the shadows and make myself quite unremarkable, unnoticeable. I can�t wait until she is like me and we no longer have to bother with all these unnecessary words. People seem so fond of words. Greetings and names and pointless, endless queries. I can�t wait until Lucia is like me. She will know when I enter a room, just as I can sense her near me, and we will have no need for hellos and no need for goodbyes. And I will know her emotions because I will be able to taste the color of their scents, rich purple and red passion, salty and sweet.

I wait patiently until she circles back. I concentrate and the dog lets out a yelp and flees into the darkness. It�s all right. Lucia won�t want it after, when it is done. Lucia, in my grip, stands still, watching it go, and then turns her attention to me. I step out of the shadows and stand before her.

It�s fascinating, the way her eyes go wide with recognition as she looks up at me. She is seeing what I truly am, for the first time. She�s changing already. I can feel the weight of words and conventions falling away from her mind. She can speak freely now, the old way, heart to heart.

--You are

--Yes.

--You are

--Yes.

--? She looks at me mutely, eyes asking a single powerful question I could not begin to put to words.

--I will show you everything.

And then I take Lucia and drag her down into the darkness with me.

 

 

Copyright © 2003 Wolfa
Published on the World Wide Web by "www.storymania.com"