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Considering how long she has been alive, it’s no surprise the Faceless Old Woman Who Secretly Lives In Your Home has seen a few things.
She has witnessed home births, devastating accidents, Secret Police standoffs, weddings and wakes and everything in between, and that’s completely disregarding everything she saw and did before she became the Faceless Old Woman. The frailty and persistence of human life is as boring as it is beautiful, and she has long since moved on to simply improving their lives in very subtle ways, ways that they rarely even notice, much less thank her for. She rearranges furniture based on the movement of the stars, cleans up or makes terrifying messes as appropriate, splatters goat blood over the walls when the bloodstone circles are getting restive.
It’s a thankless job, but she doesn’t mind. Usually. Sometimes, though, she goes out of her way to be helpful, and it would be nice to get some recognition. She doesn’t need a whole lot: A simple, “Thanks, Faceless Old Woman!” would go a long way.
This was just such the case in the situation between Cecil Palmer and The Scientist, Carlos Whatever-His-Name-Is. She has nothing against The Scientist, but she doesn’t like to be in his home very much; it smells odd and sometimes catches fire, which is awfully inconsiderate, not to mention quite distracting when she’s in the middle of making a macaroni mosaic on the shower tile. Cecil’s, on the other hand, is one of her favorite homes. It is cosy, even if the decoration is a little garish. She likes the fact that he covers his mirrors. He usually leaves out some leftovers, in case she wants a snack once he’s not paying attention to the kitchen.
It is because of this, perhaps, that when he starts seeing The Scientist romantically, that she finds herself more moved than usual to help. It’s not as though she hasn’t seen blossoming romances before; hopeless infatuation, one-night stands, break-ups rescinded the next day, there are so many different ways relationships can go. There is only one way she wants this relationship to go.
The Scientist comes over for dinner one night, and the Faceless Old Woman lurks around them. She watches them closely from several angles: scuttling across the ceiling, leaning over the tops of doorframes, hovering just above their shoulders and listening to their soft conversation. They are talking about something very boring in between bites and sips of wine, but she resists the urge to give them something more interesting to talk about. They’re having enough trouble with talking as it is; Cecil is giggling far too much, and The Scientist’s silences are far too awkward for her liking.
An idea strikes her, as they tend to. She leaves the kitchen silently and goes to Cecil’s bedroom, where he has a small carved wooden box, about half the size of a loaf of bread, secreted away in the cupboard of his bedside table.
(She only knows of it; she’s never seen him have occasion to use it, thank the stars and the merciful heavens.)
She scuttles back into the living room just as they are finishing dinner, and she hears Cecil shooing The Scientist out of the kitchen with a glass of wine as he starts the washing up. Quickly, she dissolves into shadow just as The Scientist enters and settles on the couch, sipping too often at his wine and fiddling nervously with the cuffs of his lab coat. By the time Cecil comes in from the kitchen with his own glass of wine in hand, The Scientist’s is nearly empty. Cecil motions to it with his own.
“Do you want another glass?” he asks softly, hesitating at the threshold.
“No, no, it’s fine,” says The Scientist, setting the glass on the coffee table and clearing his throat. “Please, come sit down.”
If Cecil thinks it’s strange to be asked to have a seat in his own home, he doesn’t let on. The Faceless Old Woman watches as Cecil sits, and slowly they become more comfortable, mellowed by the wine and by new familiarity, leaning against one another in increments until it’s hard to tell where one ends and the other begins. Then they are kissing, tame at first, a little disgusting; the Faceless Old Woman averts her attention, instead counting the number of incorporeal shadows that live within the walls and whom are all called George.
She’s reached number three hundred and twenty-seven when a sharp cry brings her attention back to the situation at hand, and she scurries up the wall in surprise. The Scientist has lost his lab coat and his t-shirt; Cecil’s shirt is unbuttoned and dangling from his shoulders as he leans over The Scientist on the couch, his lips and teeth working the skin just below The Scientist’s jaw, his hands roaming delicately but with great purpose over the other man’s skin. While they are both distracted, she steals into the room and plonks the box onto the coffee table, disappearing before they even register the noise.
The Scientist breaks away from Cecil, gasping, and placed his hands on Cecil’s shoulders, staring around the room wildly in search of the source of the noise. “What was that?” he whispers.
Cecil leans back on his haunches, straddling The Scientist’s hips and trailing his fingers down his chest. “What was what, dear Carlos?” he asks, tugging on The Scientist’s belt loop, his fingers teasing the skin that disappears into his trousers.
“Didn’t you hear that?”
The Faceless Old Woman stifles a scoff, half-amused, half-annoyed, as The Scientist continues his examination of the living room. She feels a thrill of triumph when his eyes land on the little wooden box on the coffee table and reaches out for it.
“Where did this come from?”
From her position upside-down on the ceiling, she watches Cecil’s face go from curiosity to horror, and he tries to snag the box out of the other man’s hands, to no avail.
“Funny story, really,” Cecil says, held back by one of The Scientist’s hands on his chest, the other holding the box above his head, his face alight with amusement and curiosity. “That’s nothing, that’s just -”
The Scientist places a finger firmly against Cecil’s mouth and sits up, replacing it with his own lips. In one smooth motion, he opens the box and glances down, staring in silence for a moment before bursting into laughter.
“Cecil,” he says through chuckles, and he nips at Cecil’s lower lip, still grinning.
Cecil makes a small sound and melts against him, and soon, The Scientist has dropped the box in favor of gripping at Cecil’s hips, tugging impatiently at the clothing still between them. Little sample packets of personal lubricant and foil-wrapped condoms spill to the floor, scattering across the carpet and under the couch - well, at least some of them will be in reach.
The Faceless Old Woman retreats further back into the apartment, feeling that her job is done and, quite honestly, not wanting to subject herself to what will probably happen next. She murmurs quietly to the sentient shadows and crawls into the depths of reality behind the bookshelf, well pleased and congratulating herself on a job well done.