The House Across the Street

George liked to keep the blinds open in the evenings. It was perfect for the plants on the windowsill to get the sun and moon they needed. Though he wasn’t even sure if the plants needed moonlight. Most people defended themselves from the dark, but George insisted on the open window. Behind his cover up, the truth was he liked the house across the street. More so he liked to watch it.

It was built of brick, a dusty red color that reminded him of the toast he usually burns. The windows were rectangular and perfect, the drapes always sitting in the right position. The young couple who occupied the home performed life as if it was a play staged just for him.

At George’s age, there wasn’t much of anything to be doing. So each evening, when the streets grew quiet, he prepared a cup of hot tea and sat with his plants. Right where he used to sit with his wife, Judy. That was until it was her time to go. George’s days were hollow, but the couple’s lives filled a void he couldn’t understand.

They first arrived in the late spring, at least that's when George first noticed them. The man was tall and broad shouldered. His hair combed neatly into a pristine swoop on his forehead. The woman was petite but still remained uptight. Her presence is larger than her figure. This couple argued despite their performance at the perfect life. George was sure that’s what it was. He could see their lips move sharply at each other. But as the man leaned forward, the woman leaned back. Her figure is growing larger than her presence.

Once George swore he saw the man grab her wrist, a firm grip only he could imagine. Without hesitation he prepared for intervention. But instead, he could only whisper the words, “Careful, girl” into his half empty tea cup.

That night, something inside George pointed him towards a leather-bound journal Judy bought for him not too long before she passed. George thought back to the moment the man made contact with his wife and began writing.

June 12- The man grabbed her wrist. Possible detection of aggression.

Short, but powerful. From then on, George kept writing and collecting “data”, as he called it.

June 15- Lot’s of yelling. The man threw keys? Woman crying at table.

June 21- He slammed the table, the woman jumped.

June 26- She looked through the window mid- argument. Brief eye contact?

The journal entries gave his day structure. When the sun hits the mountains behind his house, the tea kettle starts to hiss. George assumed a position like a detective performing a stakeout. He never shared the couple’s business with anyone. Except maybe Allison from the laundry mat. “Theres trouble across the street. Don’t worry though, I’m keeping a close eye on it.”

She gave him that smile reserved for the elderly. Polite and kind, but it never quite reaches the eyes. “I’m sure it’s nothing, Mr. Wells. You know how kids are these days.”

But George knew better. His whole life was spent watching, observing and recording. On the subway or at work. Even at church, George would spend his time reading the people around him. And George knew what he saw, a man with a bad temper and a woman trying to survive.

It wasn’t until the leaves began to change that George noticed changes as well. The small details slipped his mind. Whether it was the color of the woman’s hair, or the type of flower that sat right next to their front door. His doubts were small, but they still festered in his mind.

Some nights were rougher than others. George would rewrite the same small notes over and over until they seemed right in his head. “I must be tired”, he would try and reason. But his mind was starting to play tricks.

By the time Halloween came around and kids began to fill the streets in costumes, George was absorbed into the couple. He memorized when the man would leave the house in the mornings and when he would come back. The woman would spend her time in the kitchen or hosting company in the living room. The perfect couple they were. But George knew the truth.

On a particularly ugly night, thunder boomed over the small town. Rain trickled down the window George relied on. Even with a blurry view, George remained at his post. That night, he swore he saw the man raise his arm. Did he strike her? George didn’t know. He couldn’t tell through the fog. But he was left to wonder and he couldn’t stay back.

“Hello, I would like to report a situation happening across the street.” George spoke into the landline that was still installed.

“Could you repeat that, sir?” The non-emergancy help line replied to him.

And so, George told the story. Well, some of it. He explained how he had noticed some signs of physical abuse from the man in the house next door. But he left out the minor details of the journal that was now almost filled with notes.

“What was the address again, sir?” The responder asked.

“It’s 119 Harlem Road.” George continued to stare out the window while he was on the phone. He wanted to remember the details of the couple for later.

When the responder spoke again, they were hesitant. But the words were clear enough, “That house was sold last March.”

George chuckled at first, “I know, I’ve lived here for fifty- something years.”

“Right. Well, no one’s lived in that house since it was sold.”

George’s breath got caught in his chest. “What do you mean? I saw the two with my own eyes!” George insisted.

“I’m sorry, sir. We can send someone over to come check it out.”

George couldn’t bear to listen to anymore of this nonsense. He hung up the phone and moved closer to the window. He could picture the faces of the couple. Was he wrong? No, he couldn’t be.

George sat down with his plants one last time. He stared into the rain and at the brick house from across the street. For a long time there was no movement, not from the couple and not from him. When his eyes started to feel heavy and his heart empty, he picked himself up and gave one last look at the house.

And then, there was movement. The woman appeared in the glass, right in front of George. Her skin was pale and her hair no longer sitting right.

George sprung up, knocking the tea cup onto the floor. “I see you!” George pressed his hands against the glass and the woman followed. Their fingers almost met. George could feel her, he wanted to feel her. But just as she appeared, she was gone. And all George could see was his reflection staring back at him.

An old man with thinning hair and wild eyes. That's all he could see. No young woman, no young man. Only himself. He stumbled backwards, nearly tripping over the broken tea cup.

The truth pressed down on him, painful and merciless. The voices, the arguments, the abuse. George was responsible for everything he saw. But just as quickly as that realization came, so did another.

What if they’d just gone out tonight. What if they come back tomorrow?

George retrieved his journal from the table set up by the windowsill. His hand was still shaking as he turned to the next page.

November 4- No new update. I will continue watching.

George set the pen down and folded his hands. He fixed his eyes on the house across the street. Beyond the glass, the brick building lays empty and quiet. Yet George waited in hopes that one day, the play will resume, and he will finally be proven right.