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You don’t see me here. But I see you walking by, so I stop and wave. You only walk by faster like there’s a phantom remaking the footsteps you have left on the dirt road.
Me, I’m not the thing chasing you- I’m the thing on the side without your arteries or veins or ventricles or neurons. I briefly think you look in my direction, but you must only be looking at your reflection on the glass window behind me, checking for inconsistencies.
You must be thinking by now I’m some stalker or lowlife you have to duck your face around, but I swear it isn’t like that. I’m your friend. I’m here to make things better for you.
Most of the time, I like to sit on your wide, coffee-mug stained windowsills and observe the city through the seven-foot tall glass. From here I can see the deep blue lake and the steam blowing from apartment chimneys as the humans brave the bitter February chill. The sky is always gray and looming in these white-washed months.
In the background, I hear your coffee machine begin its daily routine in the kitchen, whirring as you coerce it to work just one more morning . I glance over my shoulder to see you-
You’re walking into the living room, blowing on the steaming mug, and I notice you have a stylish accessory on.
“What’s up with that?” I ask.
You turn the T.V. on. “None ya business.”
“Are ya goin' somewhere?”
The news flashes on. A robbery in the neighborhood.
“You know that could be you,” I say. “Always wearing a ton of gold.”
You hiss as you cut your thumb on the coffee mug’s fractured edge.
“So where’re ya goin?” I ask.
“I have a job interview. I’m leaving in an hour.”
I say, “Already?” Haven’t you learned anything from last time?
You grab a tissue to soak up the blood trickling down your palm. “I’m gonna try again,” you say.
“It’s a bad idea.”
You fold the tissue neatly and set it by the window like it’s some kind of present. Then you walk across the hall so you can go change in your room, but right by the staircase you pause. A smug grin slides across your face. “By the way, I have a therapist appointment tomorrow,” you say.
“You should give him that tissue you just crumpled up,” I say.
You sigh loudly and disappear from my sight. I turn back to the window and swing my legs on the radiator wall. The sun shines delightfully on my being.
….
“ You are not coming with me ,” you say.
“Yes I am.”
You grab your phone and check the time anxiously-“Why do you have to go everywhere I go?”
“Because I need to help you,” I say (for the thousandth time). “I’m only lookin out for ya. How far is your interview anyway?”
“Fifteen minutes by walk.”
“Take the car,” I warn you as I slip off the windowsill. I point to the car keys adamantly. You take it, but as you stop out into the white-washed flurry soon enough, you turn the opposite direction from your Civic.
“You’re gonna slip an’ fall on the ice,” I tell you. “An’ then your suit will tear. Then you’ll be late, or you’re gonna have to show up like that.”
“Please stop talking today. Help me if you will, but I need to focus. Please.”
“Oh geez, you forgot to bring an umbrella, didn’t ya? There’s sleet at 5. Again, you don’t wanna ruin your suit.”
You cover your face and walk faster as I try to catch up to you, slowly growing out of breath.
….
The school building where your interview’s gonna run, I’d seen it from the kitchen just last week. It’s just like your old school-
(And I remember when you were in school, giving a speech for a club of yours as your mom zoomed in on you on her phone, subtly smiling.
I also remember an ambulance coming to get you, saying the stage lights must have been too hot. Your mom’s phone was still recording. That was the first I ever heard your name.)
-but this one is bigger, more vibrant. The hallways douse you in color. You lean on the stairway railing and hunch your neck, checking the email that gave you the room location of the interview. It’s one floor up, in the office of the vice principal stuffed between chittering music classrooms.
I’m already there as you jog up the stairs, and I watch your face fall when you catch me lingering.
“‘Scuse me,” you mutter, pushing past me.
You get seated inside across from the vice principal and greet her hello. You wipe your palm on your pants underneath the desk where she can’t see and push your hair back over and over, wishing you had brought a napkin. Your head pulses.
She asks you the first question as she hands you water, and I bet it’s a real simple one, yet you stutter. You feel my hands on your shoulder, tapping to an inconsistent drumbeat that’s coming from the room across ours.
She asks you something else;
You cruise through the response.
Halfway, I lean in and whisper to you, “Good job.”
You shudder. You stop speaking for a moment, and she stares at you confused, wondering if your answer is complete. Then he moves on to the next question before you even get the chance to tell her you’re not done.
….
You think to eat dinner at a restaurant, but you leave just as quickly as you came. Now you’re slumped on the windowsill, your palms gripping the corners of where I normally sit.
“I deserve that job,” you say. “But you were there. You’re always there. I hate you.”
“You hate me?”
“You’re ruining my life. Everywhere I go, you break everything around you and blame it on me.”
I grip your wrist. “It’s always you,” I tell you. I don’t do a thing when I’m with you. It’s always you ruining everything, no matter what I do to make things better. So listen to me next time ‘fore you go act like you’re psychotic without thinking first for a single second .”
You take your sweater off and throw it on the sofa’s armrest. You unconsciously blow on the clotted wound on your thumb, probably still blaming it on me.
I soften my eyes. Maybe I was too harsh on you. “Do you wanna see that new Netflix film that’s coming out next week together?” I ask. “I’ll make your favorite food, whatever you want.”
“I’m busy,” you say.
“Why?”
You pick up the T.V. remote and press the red button. The screen light flashes and expands in the gloom of your apartment. “I have another interview,” you say without turning to me. You select your favorite show, and I know it’s your favorite because I know you better than anyone else.
I can’t believe you’re doing this. I want you to stay home, where it’s safe- and you can’t even be sure it’s safe at home sometimes. What if someone came in when you were sleeping? What if a storm struck down your roof?
All I have ever wanted from and for you is for you to be safe. Yet there is no place in this existence where you are free from harm.
I breathe slowly. Not for the first time, I wish I had fists to retaliate. But all I have is my words, which can be the most and least effective thing of all.
….
You didn’t see me there. But I saw you walking by, so I stopped and waved. You only walked by faster like there was a phantom remaking the footsteps you had left on the dirt road.
Me, I wasn’t the thing chasing you- I was the thing on the side without your arteries or veins or ventricles or neurons. I briefly thought you looked in my direction, but you must only be looking at your reflection on the glass window behind me, checking for inconsistencies. That was the first time I truly saw you.
I appeared again on the Day Of, which I know is the worst day of your life despite you never telling me, because I know you. This time you saw me. You caught my figure lingering in the background, a blur of shadows beneath the kitchen light. You slowly and curiously lifted your arm and waved. “What are you?” you asked.
“I’m your friend,” I said. “I’m here to make things better for you.”
You nodded and smiled.
To this day I have kept my promise, but it seems that you have forgotten what I do for you. It’s exhausting being around you; you’re like a narrative that keeps deleting itself no matter how many times I rewrite it. I am the artist, and you are the art.
I had crept up on you like how poison ivy grows on an old brick house, and now you’re too afraid to let go.