that guy...

     That guy:
     He lay there folding darkness over blunt shadows in his mouth thinking, "what the fuck with these people?" Cause it sounded like a coffin being dragged, maybe shoved, across the floor above, the ceiling vibrating, coarse words draping, dangling heavily over what he figured had to be a corpse the size of a gorilla, and,
     "Really," he said aloud, loudly, to the tip of his nose, above, a threat stuck in the paint above his head, "WHAT the FUCK!" and the bed creaked with the force of his breath.
     The sound stopped, a footfall hung in mid-air - the recognizable silence of recognition.
     They'd heard.
     They'd heard?
     The sweat on that guy, it stank, ran yellow and stained the sheets, nerve-yellow, when they run out, when they turn liquid, when the anger uses them after the adrenaline is shot, if stink could glow, this the stuff.
     The air in the room shifted direction, new attentions pushing silent weights; a door somewhere opening, drafts subtly influencing each other, grey-black whispers, premonitory.
     The sudden silence rang high-pitched in his hears, made that guy more nervous than ever, so nervous he had to get up, get those flattened pancake slippers on his feet, get to the door, and the dirty little peephole rubbed filthy with five-day old beard  - sniffling disgusted by his own remnant living-death grease-spot.
And then the surge of fear that guy felt when his eye found the vision, that woman across the hall, her door cracked open again, and she there with her nose out, one bare knee out and the bottom of a silk nightgown hovering over one bare foot, not a bad foot, not a bad knee - but her eye (not a bad eye) staring at that guy's door, as if she knew he was there, before he was there.

end of part 1


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