The Man on The Corner

He’s been outside all day, walking up and down between the corner and the red car.

He has stopped at the red car once or twice as if he was thinking of taking it.

In broad daylight it would probably be a mistake.

He has an earbud in each ear, so he won’t hear me if I go down and ask him the time of day.

17:55, by the way.

Dusk is settling, street lights are coming on.

The moon is already up, approaching, but not yet, full.

He is listening to someone.

His muttering something but I can not understand; I do not lip read and I’m upstairs across the street.

Watching.

Waiting.

Or is that what he is doing?

Waiting for the invisibility of night?

There is a knock at the door.

I look up; it Is not him.

I move away from the window and I go down stairs.

I open the door.

Two guys.

One has a mobile phone, the other a plastic pouch of screw drivers.

They say something that I don’t understand; I don’t lip read and I think they are speaking a foreign language that I do not recognise.

I tell them I don’t understand.

And they say something about gas.

I try to think, does the hose have gas?

I say, sorry it’s not my house.

They ask , is the house empty?

I say no, but the owner is on holiday.

I’m here because…

Why AM I here?

I say they can’t come in; I try to say it kindly.

One takes a photo with his phone, the other shuffles his pouch.

The photographer says I’m not taking a picture of you.

He doesn’t look like a photographer.

He doesn’t look like a gas intervention agent either.

He reminds me of someone I don’t want to have a conversation with.

He tells me he has to phone someone, so I wait.

He phones, he speaks.

I try to catch the language.

The guy on the corner looks up. 

Just for a moment.

Then paces away.

The man with the phone says thank you.

I say goodbye.

And I go upstairs and sit at the table.

The cat is asleep on a chair.

I go back downstairs and lock the door.