By Lois Anne DeLong
It was a chilly fall evening, and once again the bus was late. June stomped her feet, thinking that it was too early in the year to feel that chill roll its way up from her feet to the center of her spine. June hated the approach of winter. Each year, she emerged from winter feeling like she had aged by more than just the four months or so it took the cold season to depart. Every year, she vowed to escape it. And, every year, due to money, or habit, or lack of imagination, she stayed put.
Giving up on the bus, June decided to walk. The beckoning windows of the apartment buildings along these familiar streets always seemed to radiate warmth and good cheer. Meanwhile, all that awaited her in the tiny studio she called home was the combined clutter of a failed marriage and endless unconsummated dreams. She longed for a tidy open living space like the ones she saw in these flats. At times, she would get so close to a building that her face was almost touching the window panes, like some poor urchin in a Dickensian Christmas tale seeing all the toys she would never own.
As she walked tonight, one of these living spaces particularly caught her attention. Every element in the room seemed perfectly balanced against everything else. Even the cat seemed to know its place in the overall scheme of the space. The walls matched the shade of the “quality” vanilla ice cream she and her siblings would get on special occasions, like birthdays and graduations. The azure blue door and wainscoting were a similar hue to the early spring sky over her childhood home on Long Island Sound once the last vestiges of winter had reluctantly faded away. The total effect was of a place where one could rest, no matter what ill winds were blowing in one’s life.
Without thinking, June pulled out her phone and fired off several shots. The reflection from the window glass created a halo effect and, if she looked close at the resulting photos, June could see her own reflected image nestled against the backdrop of those perfect Cutchogue sky blue walls. The image brought peace to her restless soul.
For weeks afterwards, June would re-visit the window, snapping even more photos that perfectly placed her within that exquisitely arranged room. It amazed her how nothing in the image ever seemed to change. Even the cat always stood guard in the same spot, never seeming to move a muscle.
As winter deepened and the first snow fell on the city, the understated lighting of the space burnished those delicious vanilla walls with an almost golden hue. June lingered longer and longer each time at the window, hoping to see a human face appear. Perhaps the kindly soul who lived there would invite her in for a cup of tea. She so longed to stretch out on that blue rug, to pet that faithful cat, and perhaps curl up on the blue couch she could just barely make out in the far corner of the space.
One day, she happened to reach the apartment building just as someone was departing. June looked curiously at the individual, wondering if indeed this could be the owner of the space that now so firmly owned her heart. He was a non-descript middle aged man, with thinning hair partly hidden under a wool cap. When he saw her, he held the door open and asked, “Are you coming in?” She nodded and smiled shyly as she entered a drab hallway, painted in an industrial shade of gray. “Thank you,” she barely whispered. “My pleasure,” he said, adding “I think you’re looking for 1B.” He echoed her smile and whispered, “It’s ready,” before heading off down the street.
Not exactly sure what she was doing, June walked down the corridor till she reached 1B. “This is crazy,” she thought to herself. “I’m about to knock on the door of an absolute stranger because another stranger let me in and told me to come here. What sort of hell might be behind the door to 1B?” She looked around the hallway. Nothing appeared out of place, but it was eerily quiet. There were no sounds of cooking, no television sets blasting the disasters of the day, no children’s laughter, or pleasure-filled moans of early evening love making. It was almost as if the whole building was holding its breath as she calmed herself outside the door to 1B.
She knocked on the door once, and as she did, it pushed open. June pivoted to leave, not wishing to find herself charged with an attempted theft. She called inside, “Hello, is anyone home?” But all June heard was the mewing of the cat, who came sauntering down the hallway as if to greet her. The cat sat for moment, mewing loudly, then turned as if inviting her to follow. June did just that, suddenly feeling like she was expected.
When she entered the room, a strange feeling of contentment settled over her. Yes, she was expected. Yes, a place had been prepared for her. She stretched out on the couch and whispered, “Good night” to the cat, which had resumed her watch in the corner. The picture was now complete.
* * *
Lois Anne DeLong is a freelance writer living in Queens, New York, and she is an active member of Woodside Writers, a literary forum that meets weekly. Her stories have appeared in Dear Booze and in DarkWinter Literary Journal. DeLong spent many years as a technical writer and is the coauthor of half a dozen papers in the field of cybersecurity. She also taught composition and literature subjects as an adjunct instructor at a community college. In her free time, DeLong enjoys going to the theatre, singing show tunes in piano bars, and cheering her beloved NY Mets.