Telescope

He’s there again. Pacing up and down. Tapping his fingers rhythmically at his sides.

I know exactly what’s going to happen next. Three minutes. Maybe four. And the phone will ring. It’s the same every single time—the tapping of his fingers is the final signal. I temper my anticipation with a stuttering breath. There’s something so exciting about his energy. He’s agitated, worked up, drawn like a caged animal, and then he cascades into relief. His shoulders drop and his face opens with a smile as he brushes his hands through his thick dark hair. It’s always a wonderful moment. 

I just wish I knew who he was talking to. 

The toes on my left foot are numb underneath me. I nudge them free and give them a flex. Blood rushes back with a prickle distracting me. I tear my eyes from the telescope for the briefest moment and wake my phone with a tap. 11:26 pm. It’s been over five hours. I stretch my neck and run my tongue over my teeth. My mouth’s dry and tastes stale. I haven’t moved from my position since getting home from work. Watching him is my only focus. My obsession.

I jolt back the telescope. It’s only been seconds, but it I’m suddenly panicked. What if I’ve missed the moment? I can’t have missed the moment. I want to feel the same wave of relief as his tension ebbs.

I press my eye against the viewing lens, clear my thoughts with a blink, and hold still. My eye narrows, squeezing against the cool black metal rim. Something isn’t right. I can’t see properly. The focus is off because he isn’t where he should be. He isn’t pacing. He isn’t tapping. 

“Shit.” I snatch at the telescope stilling it with my right hand as my left twists the adjustable end, allowing me to scan each room of his plush three-bedroom apartment, all neutral velvet furnishings and marble tiles.

I try to keep things methodical. Steady. One room at a time. Corner to corner. Top to bottom. It’s impossible though as anxiety builds in my throat and trickles down into my chest. I can’t find him. Anywhere. Maybe he’s hurt. Maybe he fell. I must have missed the call. Maybe it didn’t come in. What if he worked himself up into such a state of stress before the phone call that he had a heart attack.

“Arghhh.” The sound escapes from my throat, a cross between a baby’s wail and a seagull, but then stops. Suddenly. And I freeze, my eye remaining pressed against the telescope. 

He hasn’t fallen.

He isn’t hurt.

And he isn’t on the phone. 

He’s standing right there in his bedroom, the room directly opposite my watching post. And he’s facing the window, his hands balled into fists against the glass. He’s staring straight at me.

I drop the telescope and it lands with a clatter, rolling under my bed. But it’s too late. I know he’s seen it. Me. I think about hiding. Disappearing to the floor like the telescope, and sliding under the bed. Never coming out. But my legs move before my head can put my plan into action and I stand, closing the gap between my body and the glass, pressing myself flush against the window. Skin squashed. Heat building from the inside out.

I’m drawn to him like a moth to a flame.

And he’s still staring at me.