EVERY OTHER NIGHT

It wasn't until I read in a magazine that a man dressed up his chicken, that I realized everyone has one weird hobby. I thought it was just me, but now I know better. My hobby is window staring, but since I work a day job, I can only stare at night.

I stare through the window with several thoughts going through my mind. Some are fleeting, while some make me ponder. I look through the translucent glass to the busy and lighted street below. Touching my palms to the window, I move closer. My eyes briefly land on the ring my husband had given me. I mean, my ex husband. Our marriage used to be as beautiful as daylight, with the sunshine and the bright clouds; but it became just like the street I stare at night. Dark and brooding. Although there are street lamps, shadows fill every corner. I just haven't gotten around to taking off the ring, but the truth itself is I don't want to take it off. Being single again was not appealing, even though I am already single whether I like it or not. 

I press my nose to the glass and peer at an overweight woman talking to a little girl who should be her daughter. As they walk by my window, I watch the girl swing her hair and laugh at whatever the woman had said. My breath rush out in a whoosh and it make a fog on the window. I love watching other people's lives. I do it during the day, also when I'm working at the store. I watch them come and go as they pay for their goods, but my heart feels the pressure. Now, as I strain to watch the woman and her daughter, I hear the sound of my heart breaking. 

My breathing is faster now and I know that's a sign for an approaching panic attack. I lean away from the window and fall into the chair beside the window. The chair welcomes me as I relax into the age-worn cotton. It's a red chair that Tim bought during our six month marriage. 

"Breathe," I tell myself as I try to take my advice. I inhale and exhale a couple of times and my breathing becomes normal again. 

"You are very young," my mother says when I visit her. "You should get married again. Tim was a failure anyway. You don't need him."

She tells me either with a cherry or some other fruit stuck in her mouth, or with her face pressed into a mirror. 

"See how I don't waste my time letting a man get me down," mother would say. "If only I could be twenty six again. You're so lucky. Use this time well," she would proclaim into the mirror. 

I stand again and press my nose into the glass. I press my face closely into it, I imagine that it was Tim's face. I touch my lips to it, and I remember it's just a mirror. I long for real life. For an overweight mother who would make me laugh. It isn't that mother didn't care, but she is… Well, mother is just mother.

Gwen purrs as she comes awake. She sleeps through the day and usually stays up with me at night. The cat is the only one who cares for me. Tim used to care, before our marriage became as sour as the oranges beside my feet. I have to dispose of all five of them, and I make a mental note to tell the vendor about it the following day. 

A couple walk pass and I sneer. I wish I could tell the woman not to be so happy and too dependent on the man. It would not do her much good if she would face a divorce later. They walk happily. The man has his hand around her waist and I wonder if I was under a curse. Mother is in her fifth marriage. My marriage is supposed to be forever, but Tim became tired after six months and called it off. I'm here three month later, not getting over any of it. 

I move into the chair and rub Gwen's coat. She smiles at me in a feline way, baring her teeth. Her eyes tell me how glad she is to see me.

Gwen jumps on my lap. The black coat rejects my caress as the hair moves to their original spot when I remove my hand. I love black and how it shines. The dark of night, the darkness of a stormy cloud, Gwen's coat and my daily dark mood. It is beautiful. 

I adjust my nightwear. It's also a deep black shade, and made from satin. My black hair is falling over my face and the gold chain and wedding band are the only jewelries on me. I wonder what an outsider would think if they see me. Probably a Witch of Oz? I think. I chuckle. 

Night is the time I have to be myself. To stop all pretense and let the darkness swirl. I feel it bubbling within me at the moment. I am absently rubbing Gwen's fur, but her purr make me conscious of her once again. 

"You know why I love you, Gwen?"

She purrs and I reply. "Because you love and need me too," I tell her. 

I take the orange I was previously sucking. It is sour, but better than having nothing in my mouth. I squeeze and the liquid gush into my mouth. A drop fall on my bottom lip and I lick by pushing my lips inward. I spread my legs, move my feet slowly on the rug and imagine me doing a dance. I don't bother trying it. I have no strength. But I continue moving my feet anyway. I feel like I'm caressing the rug and it feels good. 

I do this every night and it's routine, but it's also ritualistic. Better than any visit to the psychiatrist. It makes me feel good, high and I feel love holding Gwen this tight. 

I throw the skin of the orange on the floor, and take the knife on the window sill. It shines in the dim light of the room. The black handle holds a shining body. It is another beautiful black object. I put Gwen back on the floor and stare at the wall opposite me as I work.

My gaze shifts to the brown rugged floor with the dark stain. I grin at Gwen as she purrs. I place the knife back on the window sill and stare at my wrists. They look bloody, but that's normal. It's just like every other night.