Old Man Dancing

Bored.

You are bored as wood. And although you tell yourself you aren't lonely, you try a little too hard to believe it. Take another sip on your third gin and tonic and peek out the window.

You see the old man across the street - in the slice of space between the drapes in his living room window. You know it's his living room because you've observed the old man many times before. The side of a rust-colored easy chair. Part of a picture. The entry to a small ktichen in the background. This is about all you have seen.

You know the picture is of a woman because of the night you took out the binoculars...a night when the drapes were open wider than usual. Wider than even tonight. Couldn't quite tell if that picture was a photograph or a painting. Becasue of its size, you guessed a painting. Now you are not so sure.

It's a portrait of an attractive woman wearing an elegant black dress. Dark hair frames an angular face. With the binoculars, you thought you could see the beginnings of delicate lines around the eyes. You remember thinking that even had the lines not actually been visible, the artist made her more beautiful by the addition of those fine strokes mapping her life.

And you remember wondering why you thought that.

Sometimes, a cat is resplendently perched in one of the old man's windowsills. It never quite looks like the same cat, but given the darkness and the distance and the mysterious nature of cats, who the hell can tell? Not you.

Tonight the old man is up late. It is nearly midnight and he is milling about - gaining momentum as the clock and calendar approach. Pacing now. His sillouhette passes through the slit of the drapes every few moments.

The oddly cylindrical effect of the binoculars adds an avant garde quality to your vision. The old man has quit moving. Minutes pass. Your eyes strained, you lower the binoculars.

Finishing off the gin and tonic, you flip on the TV. Not that there's much difference, but you notice that Letterman is having a particularly bad hair night. He is talking to some CEO of some Internet company. TV off.

The old man has moved. He is out of your line of vision. Then, through the binoculars, one of his pants trousers appears briefly and is gone. You are about to call it a night when he reemerges in full. What is the crazy codger doing? He's dressed up...in a suit and tie. His movement is graceful. Circular. Fluid. Slow. You suddenly realize this isn't something you wish to witness. You are feeling something like anger - or maybe it's embarassment - and toss the binoculars onto the couch. Pull your curtains tight. Head straight to bed after draining the gin and tonic, the polished ice cubes falling gently like shattered glass against your lips.

You climb into the cold sheets and this bond between you and the old man is perturbational. With eyes closed, the image of that painting begins to feel like an apparition hovering just above you. Then a thought you know is going to need one more drink if you are to get any rest at all: Today is February 14th and the old man is different from you. He once had someone with whom he still misses enough to dance.