The Man in the Black Beret

“It’s just sprained. How? I’ll tell you how, a black cat dashed out in front of me in the plaza. Of course, clumsy me, I lost my balance in these stupid new heels. My feet are black from limping home barefoot like a hobo. No, I’m absolutely not going to the hospital because it’s not broken. And no, that’s not bad luck. Ha, not even on Halloween. I know, Mom. I was careful on my way home. No, that creep from the plaza did not follow me. I’m just passing out candy tonight. Of course, I will lock my door … and the window. I love you,” the girl says before carelessly tossing her phone onto the sofa. I stare wide-eyed as it bounces into the fluffy cushion and then topples right back out and makes several flips across the floor. She ignores it, but my innate urge is to lunge for it. To grab at it. To pull it in toward my body. To hold it close before doing something furious to it. But I’m out here and she’s in there.

I press my face closer to the glass and peer inside as the girl removes a bag of frozen peas from the freezer. She presses it to her ankle, but only for a few moments before limping over to the table. She dumps several bags of candy into a large bucket. Crinkle, crinkle go the little wrappers, falling over one another.

The frigid late October air billows gently behind my ears and makes me shiver, my hair standing on end. I’ve been watching this girl for several weeks now. Every afternoon, right outside of her window. She has no idea how I gaze upon her nightly rituals. Watching her most intimate moments.

Her - fresh out of the shower, gliding sweet creamy lotion across her bare hairless body.

Me - wanting to lap it up off of her ankles, to crawl up her legs and into her arms, to nibble at her cheek.

Her – lounging on the couch under a deliciously soft blanket, glass of wine in hand, falling asleep amongst the incessant hummmmmm of the black TV in the background.

Me – wanting to press my mouth to her delicate little ear while I let out a deep slow rumble from my throat. Rrrrrrrr, I want you. I need you. Love me. Now.

Every night. Just like this. Her on the inside. Me on the outside. This girl — I haven’t even met her yet, but I love her.

I think back to the first time I laid eyes on her. It turns out that this girl cuts right through my plaza every afternoon on her walk home. The plaza, the hustle and bustle hang out right in the middle of the city. It has its normal cast of afternoon characters, myself being one of them.

There is the round lady with the knobby nose and crooked smile that tends to the hot dog cart. I like her. There is the tall, bulky man that wears a permanent scowl and a black beret. I don’t like him. There is the old lady in the chunky gray blanket that feeds pigeons stale bread out of a paper bag. I don’t like her, she’s always shooing me away. Then there is the yoga girl with the beautiful long ponytail, always teasing me while doing her stretches in the grass. She was my old favorite. I could go on and on, but none of them compare to the newest addition, this girl, my new favorite.

It was one of the warmer days of fall when this girl made her big debut. The sun had been beating down on my back as I trotted around aimlessly exploring the city, as I do every afternoon before making my way back to the plaza. I lounged on the edge of the fountain, the centerpiece of our nice little plaza. I was watching children toss shiny coins up high, smiles ripping their faces apart as they silently mouthed a secret desire. I always liked watching those coins make their descent back to earth. Secretly, I wanted to catch one mid-air. I wanted to slam it, kick it, bite it in half. But on that day, I was tired from the heat, so I lowered my face down steadily to the edge of the water. I let the ripples of so many wishes tickle my nose. I stuck out my tongue slowly. My eyes cut from side to side to ensure no one was watching me before I took a little sip. It was a bitter, but I was thirsty. And home was a way away.

Besides, I wasn’t ready to go back home just yet. I hadn’t gotten to lounge in the grass and take my little afternoon nap. So, I just shrugged when a stray onlooker made an icky face as I lapped up a few quick sips of greyish water before sauntering over to the grass and plopping down under the cool shade of the large oak tree. By then, the sun was hanging low in the sky and the temperature was starting to fall. My walk home should be less heated, I thought, my body not soaking up every ray of sun, the pavement not so hot on my bare feet. I sprawled out belly up, I didn’t care who saw. I drifted in and out of sleep, but never let both eyes close entirely. As much as I love the plaza, it can be a dangerous place.

I heard it first, a low dragging sound, something scratchy against the pavement. I caught a glimpse of it from my right eye, which was taking its turn as look out. My pupils waned immediately as I opened both eyes as wide as they could go. It was a long snake like object dragging behind her. A spool of ribbon that had spilled from her bag. I leapt up to warn her that her prize was silently escaping her, but the man in the black beret beat me to it. He firmly tapped on her shoulder and pointed to the ribbon. She smiled warmly at him, and when she did, that permanent grimace he wore on his face shifted into a bright, devious smile. I studied her as she stood there in the middle of the plaza respooling her ribbon. This girl. Her body petite and lithe (like mine), her skin milky white (I wanted to taste it), her hair long and curly cascading into individual ringlets down her back (I wanted to pull at it, furiously), her face delicate and supple brimming with youth (I desired her for myself).

To say I was utterly enthralled was an understatement. Apparently, the man in the black beret was equally enchanted by this girl as we both stood there together drinking in her presence before she skipped off into the late afternoon sun. I thought about following her too, but the sun was sinking lower into the sky and the dark grey edges of night were slowly eating away at the day. I had to be home soon. If I am not home for dinner, my mother tends to become quite frantic about my absence, as if I can’t take care of myself. I patted at the necklace my mom gave me, a reminder that she is always waiting for me. That she needs me.

Perhaps I liked this girl because in a way she reminded me of my own mother, just a better, younger version. This girl was livelier with that cute little pep in her step. My own mother has grown old and frail. Too much sitting around in a rocking chair all day. With every passing day I smell the stench of sickness growing inside of her. One which I don’t think even she is aware of.

The times of us rolling around on the floor together and chasing each other through the house are long gone. Instead, she simply sends me on my way in the afternoons to get some exercise, trusting me to be home in time for dinner.

I watched this girl for several more afternoons, always cutting diagonally right down the center of the plaza, around the fountain, then off to the other side of the city. Always. The. Same. Routine.

I remember the day I started following her. I had just settled in to my usual spot under the oak tree. The smell of the hot dog cart caught my nose and the round lady motioned for me to come by for a tiny snack. But, the hunger in my stomach disappeared when I saw this girl emerge as if from thin air out into the vast openness of the plaza, cradling two large pumpkins in her arms. She stumbled and one pumpkin nearly broke free from her grasp. The man in the black beret skirted over, clamoring to help her, an awkward toothy grin on his face. He was even so bold as to ask if he could carry one home for her. I saw her with her lips pursed, shaking her head “no” before cautiously backing away. The wind blew cool – goosebumps rose on her neck, and his smiled wiped clean, replaced by a deep scowl. That gust brought an unsettling scent to my nose.  

Before I knew it my feet were carrying me in her direction. I followed her all the way home. I watched as she scaled the three steps of her stoop and in through the front door. Interesting that there was no click-click-pop of a lock after she closed the door. I frantically ran around the perimeter of the building until I found it ­– her window. My window. I watched as she lit a candle and the sharp scent of cinnamon and spice filled my nose. I watched intensely as she pulled that ribbon from the bag and affixed it into a fluffy bow before securing it to a fluffy wreath. She hung the wreath on the front door and arranged the pumpkins on her stoop. So sweet. So cute. She returned inside. Again, no click-click-pop.

Tisk. Tisk.

When she was done, she grabbed a mug and settled into her couch and turned on the TV. I observed as her eyes grew heavy and she slowly drifted to sleep. I silently tiptoed to the front porch. I was tempted to let myself in, to slither up beside her and nestle my face between her breasts as she slept. But I had to be home soon. So instead, I delicately pressed my tongue to the pumpkins, to see if any residual oil from her fingers still lingered on the rinds. I eyed the bow on the top of the wreath. I just wanted to smell it, to see if some her sweet scent had intertwined itself into the fabric. Gazing up at the tail of the ribbon, a sudden intense urge swelled in my chest. I knew I shouldn’t, but the desire was devouring me. The urge growing. I crouched low. Stop, I told myself. I wriggled with lust. No, I told myself. But a jolt of unbridled anger and rage burst from deep within. I jumped for the ribbon that had her all over it. I wanted to kill it. Absolutely murder it. The second my hand caught it, the entire wreath came crashing down. Run, my instincts told me. And so I did. I ran home as swiftly and quickly as my legs would carry me.

I returned the next day to find the wreath back in place with the ribbon ever so slightly frayed on the edge. The pumpkins, however, were gone. I could see a stain on the concrete where they once lay, along with a few stray seeds and curly tendrils. I had been perched in my spot at the window for a while when I saw her glance my way, I ducked down deep in the bushes trying to integrate myself into the dirt below so as to not be seen. That’s when she opened the window and out billowed a lofty cloud of her own sweet aroma.  

“I don’t know, mom, it’s probably just the neighborhood kids that vandalized my decorations. It’s fine, I fixed it and it’s back up now. I can get new pumpkins. You wouldn’t believe the air here today, it’s so crisp. Hopefully, you guys will get some cool weather too. I have to go, I am meeting Mel at the coffee shop. Love you,” she said before tip toeing off into the recesses of her home. I raised my head to peek back inside. She was wrapping a long gray scarf around her neck, the one with the little poms dangling at the end. She pulled her long curls up into gray scrunchie and left through the front door, this time locking it. But she had forgotten about the window.

Before I knew it, my body was halfway in. I knew I shouldn’t, but I couldn’t help myself. I dropped down low to her floor. I was inside. I surveyed every inch of her home, getting drunk off her smell, touching her clothes, pressing my face firmly into her pillow, sipping out of the glass of water she left in the kitchen. Last, I went to her bathroom and saw that bottle of milky white lotion. The bottle was resting just on the edge of the counter. Part of me wanted to move it, just a subtle sign to tell her I was here. I placed my hand directly behind the bottle and gave it a little nudge. I paused. But that violent urge crept up inside of me again and I smacked the bottle as hard as I could. I watched as it hit the tile and burst, white cream oozing into the grout. I didn’t mean to break it. I swiftly bolted right back out through window, my belly not so much as grazing the ledge, and scurried back home.

Ever since that day, something about her changed. There is always a sense of looming danger dancing around her aura. A shakiness in her voice. Caution in her movement. She was on the phone again, “It was my fault mom, I left the window open when I went out. Nothing stolen, just a total mess. Yeah, I damn sure hope it’s not that creep from the plaza too. Probably just neighborhood kids again. I got a lock for the window and another one for the front door. I promise I’ll be fine. No! I just started my job… I can’t just quit and move home. I love you.”

I felt ashamed, perhaps I had scared her. My intention was never to frighten her. I loved her. I had to tell her.

Tonight — Halloween — is when I finally tried to approach her in the plaza. I was there watching when she stumbled and fell. She screamed out in pain and clenched her ankle, furiously ripping her heels off. The man in the black beret dove to her aid. She shrieked “get away” and scuttled back as he reached for her. I could smell the fear radiating off her body and the anger radiating off of his. His fists clenched as he mumbled “I was just trying to help, you rude little bitch.”

I followed close behind as she hobbled home, keeping one eye always over her shoulder.

So here I am now, watching her shuffle back and forth to the door as she hands out candy to witches, princesses, and super heroes. When the visitors wind down, she plops herself on the couch with a glass of wine in hand and her ankle propped up on the table. She closes her eyes, and I can no longer fight the urge to be with her. I need to find a way inside, I must.

And that’s when it happens. A knock at her door.

“Sorry, all out of candy,” she calls from the couch briefly opening her eyes before returning to light slumber.

Another knock on the door. This time louder, harder.

“I said go away,” she shouts keeping her head back and eyes closed.

That’s when I smell it. I know that scent. But it’s different. Its stronger. An urge to penetrate her, to hurt her. I see the handle on the door slowly turn and catch on the lock. Good girl. It continues to jiggle and shake.

That furious sense of urgency rises inside my core again and before I know it my fists are pounding on her window. I have to get to her, now. The handle on the door continuously turns and catches.

She rises from the couch and her eyes meet mine. She freezes. I continue pounding, clawing, screaming. She unlocks the window and raises the glass so we are face to face.

“Hey, you’re the little guy that is always following me,” she says.

A fist pounding on the door frame finally gets her attention. The sound of a foot now — thump, rump, thump. The old wood on the frame creaks as it starts to give way.

She straddles the window before toppling down into the bushes. We cower side by side in darkness. We peek over the ledge just as the door gives way and crashes in. The man in the black beret stumbles inside. He is sick with lustful rage. His eyes dart around the room seeking her out.

The smell of fear radiates from her pores so thickly I can taste it.

We sprint back to the plaza together, both barefoot and cold.

She picks me up, cuddles me into the nape of her neck, then runs her hands through my necklace.

“Lucky,” she says reading my charm that dangles above my collarbone. “You really were good luck,” she whispers as she curls her fingers around my tail and I purr.