Half Sweet n' Half Nuts

Friday, September 28, 2007

Trust Me....

An inanimate foot lies elevated on a pile of blankets before me. It is a warm day and I need to take a shower but the thought of the throbbing pain in my useless sprained ankle dissuades me. I should work; God knows there is more than enough for me to do but I’m distracted and my head feels heavy, making it difficult to concentrate on the task at hand. It must be the pain killers. So I procrastinate a little longer. I am known to be lazy, but at the moment there is a restlessness which is driving me insane. I want nothing more than to shower, dress and run out into the open sun. I want to drive. I want to dance. I’d even settle for just being able to stand on both feet actually. But I shouldn’t think about that. So I lose myself in cyber world; immersed in news articles liberally sprinkled with brutality and hope, money and scandal, politics and ecological disasters I slowly forget the heaviness in my head and the immobility of my foot.

There’s a knock on the door. I look up, irritated, because it means I’ll have to get up in order to hobble to the door and see who it is, something I had spent all morning avoiding. Sigh! There’s another knock, a little more persistent this time. “I’m coming!” I yell back, as I struggle to balance on my good foot. The man at the door hands me a huge bouquet of flowers and a clip pad, asking me to sign for the delivery. Really thoughtful of him seeing how I can barely stand, I think to myself. I scribble a hazy signature across the receipt and shut the door, a tad too loud maybe. I’m usually a pleasant person but this house arrest has made me a little irritable. There’s a note in the bouquet. A lilac colored note with a message scrawled in the typical handwriting of a flower shop receptionist. It’s puzzling because I never get flowers. The flowers are set down on the first empty surface I can see and I re-read the note’s cryptic message.

“If you need a smile, I’m just a heartbeat away”.

Weirdo! Who is this? And why is this note straight out of a corny teenage sugar romance? Of course it’s unfair to assume it’s a guy but then I don’t usually have girls sending me corny notes and flowers. Then again, I don’t usually have guys bothering to either. It’s probably one of my moronic friends overdosing on Meg Ryan movies. Standing for this long is more than my ankle can take right now and the throbbing starts again; a not-so-nice reminder that I need to get back to bed. I mutter a curse under my breath and turn to hobble back when there is another knock on the door. “Who is it now?” I yell, my mood definitely not improving. I was sick of sitting but hopping around on one foot with a swollen, painful ankle is decidedly a lot worse.

I open the door, trying to balance against the frame for some support and look straight into a pair of grey-black eyes behind smart wire frame glasses. I see a face smiling without pretension, the smile of a child, open and friendly. The man at the door is tall, slightly built, with strong hands. I notice his hands because they reach out in a flash to hold me as I lose my balance and fall. I’m not sure if I went weak in the knees (or knee in my case) because I looked into his eyes or because my good foot just got really tired. All the same, here I am, confused, an unkempt heap, at the feet of this good looking stranger. As the bandaged ankle makes contact with the ground pain shoots through me and I let out a wail that may have brought several ghosts to life.

“Easy now” says a male voice, smooth and warm as good cognac. I’m scooped up as easily as if I were nothing more than a wisp of a girl, which I definitely am not. “I’m ok, please put me down” I answer, disconcerted by this latest development in my situation. He ignores my request, takes a few long strides and gently puts me down on the couch at the end of the room.

“I guess you didn’t really like the flowers” he comments on the bouquet lying on the shoe rack by the door.

“Who are you?” I ask staring at him, completely lost in the strangeness of all that is happening.

“Oh! Of course! How forgetful of me. Hi, I’m Keith” he says.

I continue to stare, one eyebrow goes up on its own accord and my face is pretty clearly asking him to continue to explain himself. I say nothing.

“I work at the bank across the street from your apartment complex. I see you walk to work every morning. I hadn’t seen you this past week so I thought I’d inquire if all was well. Found out from the cleaning lady you were hurt and badly needed some cheering up so I thought I’d drop in with some flowers and make you smile”.

Okay, now this was just absurd. I just can’t stop myself from staring at him and wondering if he’s serious. What planet is this guy from? What kind of a lunatic keeps track of people crossing his window every morning and then goes looking for them if they don’t appear one day?

“How did you know where I lived?” I ask suspiciously.

“Elementary, my dear Watson” he grins and then hastens to explain. “I just asked the cleaning lady on her way out this morning if she knew what had happened to the pretty girl who just moved in a few weeks ago.”

Smooth talker, this one. Hmmmm.

“So you’ve been sneaking around asking about me. Why?”

“I wouldn’t call it sneaking around. I was quite straight about it. As for why, well, you’re the prettiest face I have seen in a long while. It’s sort of like a lucky start to my day. You’re beautiful. And so unconscious of the effect you have on the people around you. I just felt drawn to you I guess.”

Okay, now this was just weird. Does he really think a line like that would work? I mean, some stranger walks in, brings me flowers to “make me smile”, and proceeds to wax eloquent on how my beauty makes his world a better place? What kind of a nightmare was this?

“What do you want?” I ask, a little rudely, unquestionably ill at ease under his open, honest gaze.

“Absolutely nothing. I took the day off from work on a whim. So I was hoping you’d just let me hang around and help you a little. I’m sure you could use the company. I wouldn’t mind spending time with a pretty girl like you. If you’re uncomfortable just say so and I’ll be gone.”

“Okay. In that case, I’m uncomfortable, so please leave and lock the door on your way out.”

Just at the moment there is another knock. I throw up my hands up in exasperation and try to crawl off the couch, but before I can blink he’s at the door. It’s a boy delivering a brown paper bag which smells of the heavenly bakery a block away from where I live. He pays and signs for before I can even say a word in protest. I gape at him, open mouthed, as he smiles and proceeds to the little kitchenette to get some plates and turn on the coffee brewer.

“I ordered this with the flowers. They’re a little late but I guess that’s alright. I know you like this bakery because you often stop there for coffee on your way to work and I guessed you probably haven’t gotten any breakfast in you yet. I hope you like donuts or else I could ask them to send up some bagels as well.”

Now I usually don’t like anything sweet for breakfast but the strangeness of the situation has me at a loss for words and I hear a small voice from within me say “Donuts are fine”.

“Great! Let’s get you comfortable then and we can figure how you want to spend your day after we get some fresh hot breakfast inside you” he says, as he bustles around, propping me up on the couch and setting up a tray with hot black coffee (just the way I like it) and some mouth watering donuts. In confusion, I spill some coffee and it wakes me up with a start.

“Please. Stop. I’m sure you mean well but I simply cannot have a stranger bustling around my apartment with such familiarity. I want you to leave. And take the donuts with you. Leave now or I’ll call the cops!” I realize my voice is shrill and I wince as I hear the panic ring clear.

This handsome stranger (did he say his name was Keith?) stops, looks at me, then walks to the phone which is lying in the corner, minding its own business. He lifts the handset, walks over to the couch and crouches till his eyes are at level with mine, holding the receiver out to me.

Once again his eyes mesmerize me.

“I know this is strange for you. I know it would be foolish of you to trust me. You don’t know me and it’s understandable you should be wary. I can only assure you I mean no harm. I think you need a friend right now and I’m only here to make you feel a little better. You can call the cops if you like but I can assure you I will leave before you need to do that. You’re stuck in the house alone and I’m offering you a little friendship. It can’t be that difficult to trust me for a little while, right?”

Great! I now feel like the heroine of a cheesy romance novel!

“Good” he says, standing up. I find myself ravishing the donuts and eagerly gulping down the hot bitter coffee. Keith props me up with a few more pillows and gets me the coverlet from my bedroom, tucking me in with those gentle expert hands. He hands me my pain killers with a glass of water to drown them. And just as I begin to feel overwhelmed with all his kindness he takes my injured foot and begins to remove the bandage.

“What are you doing?” I ask, trying to pull away, but wincing at the effort.

“I was planning to put some analgesic on it and massage it for you. I thought it would ease the pain” he explains, as his fingers expertly move over the swollen joint. I can feel my eyes beginning to water with the pain, but I‘m not going to be weak so I try focusing on other things in the room.

Slowly the room before me begins to blur. The heaviness in my head returns and I can barely keep my eyes open. I hear that beautiful voice come to me from far away, telling me its ok to sleep a little and let the painkillers do their job. I let my head fall back and fall fast asleep.

I feel light. I feel weightless. I look around and see myself, lifeless, lying on the couch, white as the coverlet draped over me. There are people everywhere. Cops. Reporters. Neighbors. The cleaning lady is hysterical. She’s talking to a detective in rapid Spanish so I can’t understand what she’s saying. Another detective with gloved hands is picking up the half eaten donut and the silent coffee cups and putting them into separate zip lock bags. I look around but Keith is nowhere to be seen. My once neat apartment looks like it has been struck by a hurricane, everything scattered out of its place. I hover to the nearest group of reporters and try listening to them.

“Brutal murder. It was obviously someone she knew really well because there’s no sign of breaking and entering and there are two cups of coffee and a drugged donut. Why would she eat something from a stranger in the comfort of her own home? It looks like a robbery but the police don’t know if anything is missing yet. She was such a young girl. What a painful way to die, having your throat slit like that. Why would anyone do such a horrible thing?”

And I realize I cannot even cry.

by nutty at 11:12 AM |