The wine trickles loudly. In fact, it sounds just like the word – trickle. It irritates me. The purple liquor sounds to state it’s natural, innocuous state of being: just something that trickles. Meanwhile, I am left with an unnatural, corrupting eagerness to empty the entire goblet into my mouth and down my throat.
It should do the trick. It has to. With eyes and ears on me at all times, pulling over next to a couple of tramps or inquiring about a little something special from the bartender is not an option. I need to remember to buy some nutmeg next time the husband takes me shopping.
That car is idling out in the street again; some or other old 80’s station wagon. He sits there, donning his (rather fitting) pair of oversized, gold-framed bifocals. Altogether, it looks like a proper ‘I-touch-children’ starter kit. He’s not old, about my age. And he just sits there, car idling, never moving.
I started noticing him three days ago, late at night. I was going to mention it, but decided not to. He appears at a time when everyone else is occupied with weeknight soap operas. I hate soap operas. He gazes at the house, expressionlessly, the only bit of movement engaged by his eyes as he adjusts them to fix on me when I appear in the front door or a window. I wonder what he’s doing. I feel tired.
___
So, how do I take this? Do I snort it? Do I brew it into a tea? My heart is pounding. Why is my heart pounding? The husband walks past the kitchen. What will I say if he asks? I’ve already lapped up about a teaspoon of nutmeg from the palm of my hand – I told him it was for pumpkin pie, I should probably get started on that soon enough or he’ll get suspicious again. The spice burns, clumping and puffing as I try to stabilise it with my saliva. I take three more.
If only I’d read further than “four to eight spoonfuls of nutmeg can induce a high”, I may have learned the easy way. I want to vomit, but there will be questions. Instead, I lock the door and wrap myself cosily in the sounds of psychedelic black metal, careful about the volume. I can lunge into the creation: Watercolours, always. Just water. Just coloured water and paper.
When I consider the sea of possibilities, the multitudes of techniques and mediums and styles, it always leads me to consider histories and anecdotes of other painters and the sea of endless possibility and I have to stop. This is why watercolours. It is one thing. Maybe tomorrow something else. It feels like I have the flu.
Halfway through the emergence of a tree(?), the nausea begins to tug at the back of my tongue with dryness. I swallow it down, looking around for an empty vessel. Nothing. I suppose there’s no other choice. I swiftly and quietly release myself, and sprint towards the bathroom. I manage to paint the walls of the toilet bowl with little-to-no accompanying sound effects. The husband’s off to bed already, in any case.
I pass the kitchen, catching a glimpse through the window of the station wagon idling under the glow of the street light. His spectacles glimmer in my direction. I slip back into my studio. My heart threatens to break through the sternum; maybe she wants to run off and find a host with eyes that don’t see what these do, and with a brain that doesn’t dissolve the images the way mine is wont to, conducting its own watercolour symphony of life as it appears to be.
The fear vibrates through me. Could he actually see me from that distance? I haven’t the slightest what to do – all I know is that I should not nor want to bring anyone’s attention to it. It is meant for me; I am the object of scrutiny. At least this is all mine. He stays with me; the frames of his glasses glowing from without the darkness I cannot shut my eyes to. I must go to bed knowing he is still there.
He is always gone during the day – I check each morning. I’ve been asked to retrieve the weekly tabloid from the mailbox. The mailbox is affixed to one of the posts supporting and connecting the concrete slabs that wall in the house and front garden. This particular exercise excites me, as the mailbox would be the closest I’ve been to the site of the staring, the watching.
The sight of the space alone is enough to dig out a hollow in my stomach. It is as if he never left, and is merely imperceptible to me now. I poke my hand into the mailbox opening to retrieve the paper, struggle to grab a hold, and reposition myself in order to reach better. My eye is directed to the sudden, silent appearance of the long, slate blue nose of a familiar vehicle.
No eye-contact, not yet. He has been here every day, only hidden from sight. My eyes are fixed in their inspection of the front of the car, traveling back and forth between the headlights, the bumper, trying their best to avoid his face. They soon start to burn. I can no longer evade it. I am paralysed, but I can look up. His face bears no emotion; the half-smile is an empty default setting. The eyes are fixed, as always, on me – never blinking.
I manage to resurrect myself from the state of upright death, and turn to head back into the house. Even as the distance gains between us, even as I step inside, even as I close and lock the door between us, he is with me. I’m trembling, and I didn’t need a glass of wine or a mouthful of nutmeg to get here.
Before I know it, I’m googling the contact number of the local police department on my phone. It takes me the better part of two minutes just to finish typing in the search with shaking, twitching fingers. But I do not want to call them. The terror is coiled around my chest like a python squeezing me down to size. I will not call them.
For the first time in a very long time, life is here. It pulsates, it vibrates, it crawls and it does not go away. The last time I felt this way, I had just then been released from a particularly intense sleep paralysis episode, and was surveying my room for demons by the light of my lamp. I remember the shallow inhalations and the dryness creeping over my eyes as I refused to blink. I remember the sudden impulse to comfort myself, which I achieved by drawing the covers, pulling down my knickers, spreading my legs as wide as I could and masturbating.
I parted my labia with my fingers so that all the intricate, rosy details would be visible to the invisible creatures that sought to torment me. In my delusion, I felt their eyes moving over my exposed, quivering body as I proceeded to massage my clitoris to the point of orgasm. I felt much better, and went back to sleep.
I know what to do.
I scavenge for a scrap of paper and a pen. When finished writing, I head down the hallway, out the front door and straight to the mailbox. I make sure nobody else is present, then I hold out the paper so that my admirer can see it. My head is bowed, but I’m watching him. No expression, only the message I imagine reflected in his spectacles: “Midnight. My window – at the back, on the left.”
In this moment, I am on the outside, looking at me. I feel absent. Or, perhaps I am someone else. I hold up the sign long enough to be sure he gets the message. It is only when I turn and head back inside that the rush of fear streams over me. What have I done? I begin to contemplate the number of heavy items in my studio that can be used as weapons.
The day passes slowly as I absentmindedly complete small household tasks and paint and play with the cat and paint again. It is grueling, to say the least – listening to the minutes tick-ticking away in your head and knowing all they draw closer to is the future, near and far. I’ve become adept at dragging with me this consciousness of time, every day listening to the ticking away, but this is different.
Midnight, on my open converter couch. I set the bottle of whiskey down on the floor next to me. I feel better now. The couch is conveniently positioned directly in front of the window and I am able to draw the curtains without stepping off. Holy fuck! The effects of the booze are nearly cleared from my brain as the bastard startles me, standing there like a mere silhouette in the moonlight, spectacle frames glistening.
I slowly back away, quivering. I slump to the bed, landing on my back as if in a faint. To my luck, I am still slightly intoxicated. I feel I need to, but I cannot keep my eyes off him. I slowly slide my knickers down, and decide to lift the night dress over my head as well. I am completely exposed. My skin ripples with goose bumps as my fingers glide down to spread the lips. I begin massaging myself, watching him watching me. I have to pull away every so often to avoid coming too early.
Next to me, I had set my secret toy: a glass dildo, and though I had never actually grown accustomed to using it, I thought it rather suitable for this occasion. It is plain, and if a light were to shine directly on the zone, my insides would be visible. I continue stroking my clitoris until I am sufficiently wet. He merely stands there, not moving.
I reach for the toy and first caress my clitoris with the tip, rubbing it down, down till it meets with my vaginal opening. I gently push it inside, taking quick breaks to relax and reset my vaginal muscles around it. At last, its entire length has disappeared into me, and the sight of this only arouses me that much more. He moves, as if fidgeting, and out comes a flashlight. He shines the narrow beam of light directly on my genitals.
He likes to watch, and only watch – a silent, black statue drinking in the sight of me getting closer and closer. The only part of me that exists is that which is illuminated while the rest of me trembles in the dark. I dig my heels into the bed and raise my hips as it comes closer and closer. The light follows, as if fixed, as if in actuality streaming from within me.
I’m beaming. I’m beaming brighter. And the world begins to melt. My fingers glide over and back and over my soaked, engorged clitoris. I pause to display her in the bright spot of light, watching him as he watches her. I press gently down on the base of the dildo, hugging it tightly and feeling its pressure against my vaginal wall. Then, I continue. Slowly, gently. My hips roll to the rhythm of my hand and… finally.
I crash back onto the bed, my torso curling up as I contract with the inward pull of the little death, and delight in the sensation of the dildo pushing back aggressively against the contraction. Mouth open, teeth bared, eyes forced open – fixed on him. My feet slide in under me as I thrust my pelvis forward. I attempt to keep my voice inside, but I need to shove the pillow in my face to do so. I stay with it as long as I am able, eyes rolling up and teeth grinding.
When I can bear it no longer, I release myself and feel the warmth of my lungs escape in great wafts. I open my eyes after scarcely five seconds of recovery to see that he had disappeared. I think that is the last I’ll ever see of him.
