The good neighbor 1 - Meeting Janet W

 Eyes are the windows to the soul, it is said, and that one

eye, grey, with the large black pupil, held his attention as no

other could.  In the eye he glimpsed eternity.  He lowered his

gaze.

     Only two things sat on the table in front of him:

a dish-towel and the envelope.  The envelope had only one word

on it:  Vincent.  She had scrawled it in her inimitable style.  A

shudder went through him and his gaze rose again, to contemplate

the grey eye with its large black pupil.

     It wouldn’t be so hard, Vincent thought, it wouldn’t be

difficult at all.  This vaguely surprised him.  He had thought

it would be otherwise.  Vincent grinned ironically, what would

life be, if not for its surprises?

     His arm grew tired, for the gun was heavy.  Reluctantly,

he turned the barrel away, causing the grey eye to disappear,

and lowered the gun to the table, to rest on the dish-towel.

     As he shook out his tired arm, Vincent looked around the

room, then out, through the window, to the apartment building

opposite.  Empty, all empty.  Faceless people, big city, all

empty and devoid of all that mattered.  It would be a relief,

he decided.

     His hand didn’t tremble at all as he reached into his

shirt pocket and pulled out his bullet.  Not any bullet, but

‘his’ bullet.  It gleamed in the afternoon light which streamed

through the now uncurtained window.  So beautiful.  Such utility.

He marveled at the simplicity, the stark majesty of it.

     The revolver, with that heady aroma of gun oil, was in his

hand.  Practiced fingers unlatched the cylinder and swung it

open.  Practiced fingers picked up the bullet and slid it into

the chamber.  Practiced fingers spun the cylinder, until the

loaded chamber was in the proper position, then swung it closed.

The sharp click sounded very loud in the quiet room.

     A last look around?  Why?  There was nothing to see anyway.

All that he needed to see he could see in his mind’s eye.  The

cold grey eye as it rose and . . .

     The knock on the door startled him.  What to do?  His mind

blanked.  The knock repeated, a little louder, a little faster.

     “Damn.”  Why couldn’t he think, make a decision?  Shoot or

answer the door.  The knock came again, insistent.

     “Damn.”  Vincent lowered the gun to the table and carefully

covered it with the dish-towel.  He stood as once again the

visitor rapped upon the door.

     “Coming,” he called, irritated by the insistence of the

rapping, by the delay this person was causing.  He swung the

door open quickly, catching the woman by surprise, her fist

poised to knock yet again.

     He had startled the woman with his sudden opening of the door

and the way he thrust his face forward.  He could see it in her

eyes.  Her expression, at first determined, seemed tentative now.

Her whole posture spoke of indecision.

     “Yes?” he asked, his voice harsh.  Best to send her on her way

at once, to get back to what was important.

     Her face composed itself before his eyes.  She straightened

perceptibly.  A bright smile appeared, as if by magic and he

had a sinking feeling.

     “I’ve come to talk with you about . . .”

     “You’re a JW, right?”  Vincent interrupted her.

     The woman’s smile dimmed then brightened again, her eyes

laughing.  “I guess you could say that.  My name is Janet and

my last name . . .”

     “Starts with a W,” he finished with her.  “Well, Janet W.

what do you want?”  He wasn’t about to let her get started

with anything.