Dragonfly

by Alyssa Thiessen

  “And you really didn’t take any lessons?”

  “Nope. They offered, but I wanted to do it myself. And I think, maybe one day, I’ll ...”

  “Join a band?” I finished for her.

  “No!” She laughed now and touched my forearm briefly. My skin felt warm where her fingers had made contact, and I suddenly found it hard to concentrate. “I was going to say, play for my kids. If I have any.”

  “Why not...” I was trying to maintain a steady stream of thought. Could a single touch change my world? “Why not join a band, I mean?”

  “I’m just not—It’s just not how I see myself. I don’t like the idea of being in the spotlight. Plus, my parents would freak.”

  “Are you good?”

  “I’m okay. Wanna hear something?”

  Did I want to breathe? “Sure.” She got up and went into her room, while I tried to collect myself. I tried to think about something other than the soft texture of her fingertips. Impossible. She returned with the guitar. It was a pink acoustic with flower designs along the side.

  “Okay. Tell me if you recognize this one.” Then she started to play. I closed my eyes, listening to the sound swell and fill the room. Having her play for me was the single most moving experience of my life.

  “Recognize it?” she asked. I cleared my throat, slowly opening my eyes. I’d almost forgotten to be listening for the tune, but I’d picked it up at the end. I had to wait, though, for a moment, before I was able to answer.

  “I’m pretty sure I’ve heard it before, although I can’t think of the title.” I didn’t have the chance to listen to much music.

  “Brown Eyed Girl,” she said. “It was my favorite when I was a kid. My dad used to sing parts of it to me all the time before bed. And I have brown eyes, you know.” Today, her eyes were cat-like, jade. “Contacts”, she said, gesturing.

  “Ah.”

  “But normally they’re brown. My dad has blue eyes. When I was little, he used to sing to me every night. That was before he got promoted. Plus, you know, I’m too old for that sort of thing.” She shrugged, seeming to wave away the shadow that briefly crossed her expression. “It’s the first thing I learned, though. I played it for him once, and he said he liked it, but I don’t think he remembered it from before.” She shrugged again. How did it feel to have that kind of childhood memory? Nice, I imagined, although maybe it hurt knowing that something that meant so much to you didn’t mean anything to the other person.

  “Anyway, that’s me.” She started strumming again softly. “You don’t play any instruments. You fly and steal things for fun. What else is there about you? Where were you born?”

  How could I field that one? “I don’t really remember.” Honesty. How would that go over?

  “You don’t remember?” I could tell she wasn’t sure if she believed me. “You don’t remember where you grew up?”

  “Not really. Bits and pieces, maybe.”

  “Kind of like amnesia?”

  “Maybe.” I shrugged and leaned back against the arm of the chair. She crossed her legs again, resting her guitar across them, and leaned in toward me.

  “Do you at least remember your parents?”

  “Sometimes. A little, at least. Sometimes I think I dream about them.” I sounded weird. But the words were out so I pressed on. “Sometimes, if I smell something or taste something, it will take me back and I think I remember something more. But I don’t know. Play me something else.”

  So she did. Most of the pieces sounded familiar, and I caught snatches of melodies I’d heard wafting through windows and down evening streets. “Don’t you sing?” I asked, at one point.

  “I do. But I have to know you first.”

  I wondered, in passing, if that was her hook, her way of keeping me interested. She didn’t need one, of course.

  I wasn’t sure how long we sat there but, when the sound of voices drifted down the hall, outside of the apartment, I stood. My cue to go. She got up quickly and led the way to the window. “Do you have a cell?” she asked. I shook my head in the negative, starting to climb through the small opening. “If I gave you my number, would you call it?” The key was in the lock now; I could hear it.

  “Drop it out of the window; I’ll catch it.” And then I was out and across the street, sitting, waiting for the window to open again. My patience was rewarded when, a few minutes later, a small, white scrap of paper slipped through the side of the frame and fluttered down. I swooped after it, catching it three floors down, and then I headed back up again, the paper clutched firmly in my fingers as if my life depended on it. I didn’t look at it, in case it was blank, but sat again, watching. She went into her room, closed her door, turned off the light, and switched on her lamp. And then she stood at her window, looking out toward me, her hand on the pane. She rested her forehead on it first, then turned her head and rested her cheek. I imagined how warm she would feel against the cool of the glass. She went to bed hours before I finally headed back.

  Inside, I sat on my couch and unfurled my fist. Crumpled white paper with pink scrawl: ten numbers. Did she really intend for me to call her? Did she believe I would? Would I? And, if I called her, what would I say? Could I ask her to come out with me? Invite myself over? I certainly couldn’t invite her over here.

  So I didn’t call. I did watch my next mark a little. I tried to keep track of his coming and goings. I didn’t go by her place at all. I didn’t want her to look out of her window and see me watching. I waited, in fact, four days before I couldn’t stand missing her anymore.

  I finally crept down the back stairs of my apartment building, into the general hallway, and out the front doors. It was two A.M. and, aside from two drunks leaving a bar across the street, there weren’t any people who would notice me. I’d thrown on my light trench coat before leaving the apartment just in case.

  I inserted the coins and haltingly dialed the numbers she had written. Payphones were getting harder to find, so it felt providential that there was one just outside my place. It rang four times, and then I heard the click. I wondered if she’d dropped the call. It was, after all, the middle of the night and, as I’d observed when studying her family, she was almost always in bed by eleven. “Hi.” Her voice was thick, sleep-filled, and I knew I’d awakened her.

  “Hi. It’s Joshua.”

  “Joshua?”

  “Joshua. Miller. From the other night?” I tried to offer an explanation. “You gave me your number?” There was silence. This wasn’t going very well. Did she know a lot of Joshua Millers? Give a lot of people her number? Did she really not remember me?

  Finally, she cleared her throat. “You didn’t call.” Oh.

  “I did.”

  “When?”

  “Well, now.” There was a beat, and then the phone clicked again. “Hello?” She’d hung up. “Hello?” I asked again, to make sure. I hung up the receiver and stood there, staring at the silent, angry payphone. Did she want me to call back? Voices echoed across the street. People were leaving the bar. I ducked into the apartment and waited for them to pass. Should I go back to my room, forget about the whole thing? Was it an accident? Was she angry I hadn’t called sooner? Or had she not wanted me to call at all? After the street was silent again, I waited a few minutes and then, uncertainly, left the safety of the building. I stared at the phone. It would be humiliating to call again and have her hang up. Or not answer at all. I picked up the receiver anyway. Digging in my pocket, I pulled out more change. Last time.

  “Hello?” She answered on the first ring. Her tone was clipped.

  “Hi. We got disconnected.” There was a silence again. “Hello?”

  “I hung up.”

  “Oh.” The silence stretched. “You still there?” I finally asked.

  “Yes.”

  I wasn’t sure how to respond, although I wouldn’t have been surprised to hear her hang up again. I hadn’t had any interpersonal conflicts since Nik, and our conflicts were very short-lived. And
never quite so awkward.

  “I just—I thought I must have imagined you. You didn’t call. Why didn’t you call?”

  “I don’t know.” Easiest response. She was quiet. “I’m sorry,” I added.

  “Okay.” I could hear the rustling of sheets, and I imagined her getting out of bed to stand at the window. “So, I didn’t imagine you then.” She still sounded guarded.

  “Definitely not.”

  “Fine.” She hesitated, then added, “The family’s going out tomorrow.” Thursday. “I’m planning to be sick again.”

  “Okay.” I couldn’t tell if the conversation were going well or not. Was she inviting me over? “Should I come by at eight?”

  “Sure.” She was quiet for a moment. Then, “You could come through the front door, you know. Leave the wings at home?”

  I wish. “I don’t really want anyone to notice me. Plus,” I was about to lie again, but this time it was necessary, “I have a job to do an hour earlier.”

  “Be careful, okay?”

  “Always.”

  “See you later.”

  I waited until she hung up.

  Chapter 4

  I met Marcus later that evening in our spot. He heard me as I moved through the bush. He was waiting for me, with a small plastic bag of groceries in his hand. I was later than usual.

  “I was about to go. Wasn’t sure if you’d be here tonight.” He knew already that, if I didn’t show up, it meant I had moved on for the next while. Marcus would, of course, continue to come each week to the park and wait for me, ‘just in case.’

  “Not heading out just yet. Soon, maybe.”

  “Good idea, good idea. Can’t let anyone get too close, you know. Keep moving. Keep moving.”

  “I know.” I let out my breath slowly, in what probably resembled a sigh.

  “Something’s on your mind,” he said after a moment of silence and no movement from me.

  “Maybe. Marcus, I called a girl tonight.” I’d never discussed my personal life before. I’d never had one to discuss, anyway.

  “A girl? What kind of girl? Where’s she from? Why’d you call?” He was on full alert.

  “Just—a girl. I met her on a job.”

  “Um-hum.” Not exactly approval. Then, “She pretty?”

  “Yep.”

  “Be careful then.” He told me to watch the pretty ones especially. Most pretty girls were trouble. Not his girls, of course; his beautiful wife and sweet little girl were wonderfully perfect. And did I know that his daughter had started preschool that morning?

  Before I left, he reached out and touched my arm. As far as I could remember, Marcus had never touched me. “Be careful, Joshua. You don’t want to get hurt.”

  It was too late, though. And it was my own fault.

  The next night, across from her building, I glanced at my watch again. 7:55. The family was long gone, but I had resolved to wait until 8:00, and I resisted the urge—again—to go early. I’d been there for almost an hour, waiting. She’d changed three times in the past forty-five minutes. I’d tried not to watch her getting ready, but it was difficult to look away. She was really quite beautiful, although I hadn’t noticed it before I’d spoken to her. Watching her now, though, felt like an invasion. Did she know I was out here, trying not to look? Why hadn’t she drawn her curtains?

  Eight o’clock. I looked around once, but I didn’t hesitate long before I crossed the space between us. The large living room window was already open, the screen removed. I climbed in quickly. She was sitting on the couch, watching T.V., pretending that she hadn’t been waiting anxiously for me, that she hadn’t removed the screen fifteen minutes prior to my arrival, and that she was completely enthralled with this evening’s presentation of whatever nature show seemed to be playing, which looked, to me, to be about tigers mating in a sanctuary somewhere—South Africa, maybe. “Hi. Eight, right?” I greeted her as if I were convinced by her pretense.

  “Oh,” she said, pulling off an exaggerated startle somewhat comically. I struggled to keep a straight face. “You’re here. Come in.” I was in, but I nodded and sat beside her. “So,” she said, glancing sidelong at me, “what do you want to do?” There were many things I could think of, I’m sure, but none that seemed appropriate at the moment. “We could watch a movie.” She filled my silence. “We have satellite.”

  “Sure.” A movie. I didn’t know if I’d ever watched an entire movie. I’d seen them on before, at my marks’ houses. With Nik, it had been all business: the quickest way into a home, the importance of keeping your face covered, the essential nature of gloves. And certainly, there were no movies before Nik.

  She was fiddling with the remote now. She located a menu and scrolled through. A movie. Quaint. Surreal, somehow. Watching a movie, with a girl, on a Thursday night. It was such an ordinary, commonplace activity, and yet I had never experienced anything like it. She read me the titles. I wasn’t really listening, and I nodded at one she sounded like she liked. It started, and she got up, walked across the room, and turned out the lights. “I’ll make us some popcorn,” she called, as she went into the lighted kitchen. Popcorn. Whose life was this?

  Soon I heard popping; the salty, buttery scent filled the room. The movie had already begun playing, but I was listening to her in the kitchen. The tiny clink of the glass bowl as she took it down from the shelf. The rustling of the bag as she shook the popcorn out. The soft padding of her feet as she walked across the floor to sit down beside me. My upper and lower set of wings were extended on either side of me, flat against the back of the couch, spanning over its entire length. I was certain it was a strange sight, but it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered but the sensation of her shoulder touching mine, her arm pressed against the length of my arm, our legs fused at the outside of our thighs. She rested the popcorn on our laps, between us, and I moved my inside hand to rest it on the base of the bowl. She stared at the TV intently.

  “Have you seen this before?” I asked.

  “Yes.” Her reply was quick, a little too shrill. The popcorn sat warming me, but I couldn’t bring myself to move my hand to take any. I couldn’t remember ever being as aware of another human in my life—and I had spent my life being aware of other humans. I had no idea what was happening on the screen in front of me. I stopped breathing every time she shifted her weight, and I was struck with the distinct knowledge that my right hand, which was resting comfortably on the popcorn bowl, was also resting quite comfortably on her lap. I couldn’t think. I blinked rapidly, trying to get my bearings. I pulled my hand up quickly and reached into the popcorn bowl. The warm kernels gave me something concrete to do, as I focused now on the taste and the texture—anything other than my proximity to her. I suddenly realized, with horrified fascination, that I had turned to watch her bring the popcorn to her lips. I tore my gaze away, fighting to concentrate on the movie, to keep my mind from going places I was unprepared to go. I attempted valiantly to focus on the screen before me. I failed. Miserably. As if they had a life of their own, my fingers found hers within the bowl, and I wrapped her fingers in mine. We sat like that for the remainder of the movie; shoulder to shoulder, thigh to thigh, and hand to hand in the popcorn bowl. As the credits rolled, I hoped there would be no skill-testing question. There had undoubtedly been some sort of plot line of which I should be aware, but I couldn’t recall it, not for the life of me.

  I was struck by the idea again that I shouldn’t be here. Not on some sort of date, with a beautiful girl who didn’t know me. Who couldn’t ever know me. I turned to her, to tell her I had to leave, to make an excuse. As I met her eyes, though, I was startled to see her watching me intently. Waiting. Waiting for what? Suddenly, some part of me knew. I stood abruptly. “That was good,” I told her, my voice forced and too-loud in the intensity of the moment. She looked surprised. The spell was broken. She got to her feet awkwardly.

  “Do you want to do something else? We could... I don’t know... we could play a game?”

&nb
sp; Games. I’d played enough now. “No, I can’t,” I told her, backing away toward the window. What exactly had I thought I was doing? I thought I could sit with a girl and hold her hand and then what? It wasn’t fair. “I have things to do tonight.” My wings were at the window now, my hands on the sill. “I should really get going.” She looked confused, but I steadied myself and turned my back to her.

  “Did I do something wrong?” she asked softly, hurt etched in every word. Her words abruptly halted my retreat. I could no more crawl through that window than take the wings off my back. I sighed, still not looking at her.

  “No. It’s me. I should never have come. I just –” I hesitated. Simplest answer. Always give the simplest answer. “My life is no good for sharing. A relationship can’t work.”

  There was silence behind me. I felt her move forward to come and stand beside me at the window, at the glass beside the open screen. “Who’s talking about a relationship?”

  “Lexi, I’m bad for you. You’re innocent. Happy.”

  “Happy?” Her voice cracked. “I’m not happy, Joshua. You’ve spent all this time watching me—and you think I’m happy?”

  “You have the whole family thing. Friends. I don’t. And I don’t want any.” Or I didn’t, before I’d met her. “I don’t want to complicate my life.”

  “Then go. Go if you want to. I don’t even know you anyway.” Her fingers were tracing shapes along the glass now, in the steam. Swirls, hearts, flowers.

  “You’re right. You don’t know me.” I watched her childish art take shape.

  “When I saw you, that first time,” her voice was small, “I was terrified. But as soon as you took off that mask and let me look into your face, I wanted to know you, you know? And then, when you left, I couldn’t stop thinking about you—some guy, who broke into my house. I should have been afraid. I should have called the police, or told my parents, or at least hoped you’d never be back. But I couldn’t stop watching for you, hoping. So I could know you.” I heard her take a shaky breath. “I want you to stay. Joshua, please stay.” How could I possibly leave after that?