Chapter Ten.

CHAPTER TEN

THE steering wheel feels damp beneath his touch. He stretches his fingers out, one by one, before returning them to the black pigmented leather. The brick building before him is of a pale red shade, the sky above a greyed canvas that is being smothered by soft clouds. His knuckles are white.

Her window is double-hung, and he estimates it to be around 48 to 52 inches. The lighting inside of the room is not optimal and creates more shadows than it does silhouettes. His leg bounces restlessly when she pauses in front of the window. At last, he sees her. Sees the low cut of her sweater, the perfect lines that bring together her features, and the mane of dark hair that cascades down her back. The perfect muse. His right-hand trembles violently as it reaches for the key in the ignition and starts the engine.

His little room is starting to become incessantly cluttered. He's going to have to clean it before his wife takes notice and sees it as her duty to accommodate all of his precious belongings. The very precious and secret belongings that belong only to him. That no one else can see. One after another, he pushes newspapers and thin books and thick books out of the way until his hand finally finds the hard black cover of his sketchbook.

Adrenaline pumps through his veins, begging to be let out in the form of a shriek, an abrupt movement, a hard punch. Begging, pleading, imploring to release the steam of its acceleration. Hurriedly, he reaches for the nearest pencil and brings its tip to the newest blank page. It snaps. He tosses it against the wall. Reaches for the nearest pencil again. He begins to trace line after line, his hand becoming increasingly steady the more he manoeuvres it over the paper. On the page, the silhouette of her head, of the low-cut sweater—and a rope, over her chest, over her shoulders, around the neck. He can hear only the sound of his breathing and, for a second, the sound of her voice as well. Begging, pleading, imploring.

Outside—voices, a melody. Music coming from his son's room. The insufferable sound of his wife's voice. His wife and someone else. The revolting neighbour. With her atrocious haircut, disgusting stout build, and repulsively sweet vanilla scent. How could anyone be attracted to such a thing? He wonders that often. At his job, at the supermarket, walking down the street, at church. Such unsightly women plague all of these places. They're everywhere he goes. Round and wrinkled and hideous. So unlovely it makes him nauseous. How could anyone ever love them? How could anyone bear to wake up to the sight of them? How could anyone long for their touch?

He sometimes envisions them as well. Restrained and struggling. Begging, pleading, imploring. They're intrusive thoughts. He hates how vulgar it makes him feel to think of them in such a manner. He shakes his head to rid himself of those images. Quickly. He deserves better. He deserves youth, innocence, rosy cheeks, full breasts, tight skin. No wrinkles, no soft flesh, no grey hairs.

His hand continues to move, now with a subtle tremble to it as he traces the waves of her hair. His heart is pounding. The boards at the end of the hallway creak, announcing a visitor in his little corner of the house. His and no one else's. He closes his fist around the pencil with great force, expecting it to snap. It doesn't. A string of curse words is muttered under his breath, longing to be let out in the form of screams and yells. He steps out before his wife can reach the door.

"I didn't hear you come in," she says. Then she points upwards, to the room upstairs, as she turns to leave. "He's had a bad day. You should go and talk to him."

He nods. He begins to follow his wife. They part ways at the end of the hallway. His moves are robotic. His limbs are limp. His legs are heavy as he drags them up the stairs. Do this, do that. The revolting neighbour laughs. He clenches his fists. Thinks back at the waves of her hair.

The door in front of him is of solid wood, painted a faint black. On the other side—drums, bass, guitar, a voice. He raises his fist. It trembles. His eyes are fixed on her sweater, her breasts, the rope. His mouth opens as if to let out a scream or a cry. He cannot tell which. No noise comes out. His body begins to quiver in synchrony with his unsteady breathing.