Almost-Friend

It started on an evening like this when the incessant rain made you listless. Your mind started to gather moss like the furred branches outside your window. When the rain stopped, you willed yourself to leave your apartment. A liquid light cradled the autumn evening. You walked along the edge of the sidewalk, peeking through half-drawn curtains. Families gathered at the dining table under chandeliers. Couples eating in the kitchen, perched on barstools. You imagined the tinkling of wine glasses and cutlery. Muffled laughter seeped through closed windows. And that domestic smell of dryer sheets and minestrone.

The familial coziness stirred dread inside you. That was the first time.

Tonight is such a night when you want to let yourself go. Once again you bring yourself to admit that you like to tinker with, touch, smell, and caress things that aren’t yours. You like to do it when the occupants are not around. You sift through things with an archaeologist’s curiosity, with a physician’s precision, with an almost-friend’s empathy. But you never steal. You never rummage. You never leave a trail. You only pilfer the secrecy of spaces. Tonight, once more, you’ll give in to that urge. You’ll don the air of unfamiliar spaces like a shirt worn by someone else. Feel the contours carved in their shape.

For a while you stick to your usual route. Then you take a detour and walk uphill along the road that forks to the left. You haven’t ventured this way in months. New houses sit among old ones. Flat roofs with open decks. Glass exteriors. Ugly metal siding. The shimmer of the lake afar the only respite. Like a known animal it lies under the inky sky.

A sudden draft of air and the tinkling of wind chimes. Your hair stands on end. You’re on high ground looking through a skylight. A woman with a blunt bob at a computer, the study lamp casting a pool of shadow behind her. A bowl of green apples. Chintz upholstery and pine wainscoting. The mayhem of orderliness. But an occupied house won’t do. You turn away from the house and take the path winding further uphill.

An empty house has its aura. You know there’s no one inside even though the porch light is on. You slink into the shadows of the boxwood hedge and run lightly to the other side. There’s always a yard door, and invariably, it’s not locked. The yard light isn’t on and there are no cameras. With a practiced click you open the patio door to the living room. You have mastered the art of opening locks with a simple wire.

No alarm, which is always a relief. In any case, you are dressed in all black and your chin sinks into your collars. Your fleece hat covers the other half of your face. You always check the windows to see if they have access to a drainpipe.

You heed the mountaineer’s advice that summiting is only half the battle.

You inhale the voluptuousness of filled-up spaces. You are systematic in your exploration and start with the foyer—the shoes, boots, and keyholders. Console tables, curio cabinets, and kitschy knickknacks. The occasional pricey showpieces. Artifacts of the mundane. At this point you stop to regard these people with a wave of tenderness. Fools who faithfully love to acquire.

When you’re done, you let yourself out the same way. The only trace left is the unlocked patio door. Too bad, you smile, as you foresee a tiff about who left it unlocked.

You move from house to house examining living room, kitchen, bathroom. You are swift. Should the occupants return, you have your way of blending into the yard or climbing down a drainpipe. You marvel at the sameness of organization, the monotony of accoutrements. Mixing bowls and iceboxes, shaving sets and eye makeup. Stacked toilet paper and camping paraphernalia. A peek into the refrigerator’s leftovers. Its frigid light and occasional rot.

Bedrooms you enter with hushed reverence. You leaf through the closet contents. A woman’s perfume on a cashmere sweater. Stale smoke on a man’s suit. In a cedar chest drawer, lacy underwear like a museum’s butterfly display. The ineffable excitement of hatboxes that store anything but hats.

One more house and you are done for this evening.

There is something about this last house that stalls you for a moment. One of those mid-century ramblers that have withstood the test of time. You lived in a house like this till you gave up everything and moved into your studio. The only thing you miss is your foster cat from two winters back. The way she carried her long body, casting on you her green gaze. She had a way about her that made you want to get over yourself.

A weight on your heart as you enter the house. No power. For these occasions, you carry a small flashlight. Packing boxes strewn all over. People on the move. You stumble and shiver ever so slightly. An armoire with an unplugged TV and a defunct brick fireplace. The kitchen’s unusual stillness—no hum of the fridge or flicker of oven clocks. More packing boxes. White marks on walls from where photos have been taken down.

In the bedroom, the smell of naphthalene balls. A bed stripped of linens and mattress. A curtain moving gently in a draft perhaps from a chink in the window. You shiver again, but not from the cold. Your hands are unsteady as you rest your flashlight on a bookcase. You hold onto the dresser, which is heavy and full. Slowly, you open drawers and start fingering the contents.

Nightclothes, socks, underwire bras. Semiprecious jewelry.

And then, something wrapped in a piece of cloth you half recognize.

Your body is cold.

You close your eyes, and your mouth widens as you pull out from the cloth a knife with stains the color of rust.

Sayantani Roy

Sayantani Roy writes from the Seattle area but often finds herself mentally roaming the roads of small-town India, where she grew up. She has placed work in publications such as Amethyst Review, A Thin Slice of Anxiety, Book of Matches, Gone Lawn, Heavy Feather Review, The Hooghly Review, and Wordgathering among others. She is thrilled to be a community TA in the very popular poetry MOOC ModPo. Find her on Instagram @sayan_tani_r.