Crystal clear
I clean the windows once a week, squeaky clean so I can see the
whole street, as there is no glass at all, and I see every detail of every tree
and house the smudges blind me to sometimes.
I have no acute fascination with what goes out there or in the
houses of my neighbors; I just don’t like not knowing things, half the reason I
troll news websites knowing I won’t like or agree what I get yet determined to know
what it is I disagree with.
My neighbors think I’m nosy because they see me when I see
them, and they snarl at me when I come out to collect the newspaper from my doorstep,
saying untrue things perhaps to get me angry. I mostly don’t talk with them
when I don’t have to, and I listen to them only when they complain about my dog
being off his leach and leaving not-so-friendly calling cards on their manicured
lawns.
Sometimes I see too much, the domestic disputes through
their unguarded windows, shades down as husband-and-wife shout things I cannot
hear, knowing what is said without hearing, and today, seeing the usual
suspects shouting across the way, seeing the usual rage that shows on their
faces, seeing this time the man drawing out a pistol aimed at his wife, at her heart.
I do not hear the shot. I see only the smoke and the impact,
the circle of red in her chest and her falling back, red smearing the living
room wall as she slides down it, my hand pausing as it wipes at the glass with
the paper towel, as if I am no longer cleaning the Windex from the glass, but
the blood from the wall in that distant house. It is so clear I can see it all,
even when I see the man turn, even when I see him see me, still gripping his
pistol as he comes out the door, as he crosses the street, as he make his way
up my drive, staring back at me through glass that no longer looks like glass,
his rage so vivid I cannot wipe it away as he lifts his pistol and shatters glass
no amount of wiping will clean.
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