Watching

I check the kitchen clock against my watch to make sure one of them hasn't slipped out of sync in the 90 seconds since I last looked. They are moving together, second hands like graceful dancers. Synchronized choreography to the screaming music inside my head. I want to tear them off to spare myself the agony. To make the spinning stop.

I run my fingers through my hair, sighing loudly as I turn back to my tired, rigid post at the front window. In the thick silence even my breathing sounds amplified, and the echo of my foot tapping the hardwood threatens to deafen me. I strain to see across the courtyard to the empty parking lot. It's fallen dark now and starting to snow a little. 

I watch the tiny flakes spin and tumble. A different dance, a different song. Falling to the soft grass below where tomorrow they will be sculpted into a lopsided snowman by the little girl who lives in the apartment under mine.

The street lamps flicker on, creating a contrast to the storm moving in. Instead of the usual yellow glare, the lamps in the falling snow make the parking lot look crystal gray. Despite standing directly over the heating vent I realize I am shivering. I can see my own reflection in the fogging window better than the parking lot now.

I look down at my watch again, surprised to see that several long minutes have managed to pass. As I turn away from the window the telephone rings, and I do not see the figure who has been watching from the shadows step into the light.