4. A GOD OF SHADOWS

A GOD OF SHADOWS

I floated on the porch swing; my neck craned to take in the other-worldly glow of the crescent moon after another long evening laboring over the painting of Rebecca. I tugged on the knit blanket around my shoulders to keep the cold out. It was almost Halloween, and snow had already capped the mountains. A saner person might go inside when it's cold as hell, but I lived for this weather, for the cold mornings, the beautiful colors in the mountains that seemed to flicker like a hearth, the burnt orange, vibrant reds, and mustard yellow for miles and miles.

I held a lit cigarette up in front of my face and mumbled to no one, "You need to stop this." I waved the cigarette in the air, the smoke rising and swirling from the ember, "And stop talking to yourself. You look fucking nuts." And I did. My fingertips and knuckles were paint-stained. My fingernails were dyed a deep ghoul green. Frowning, I took in how the colors had settled into the lines in my palm, like irrigation canals in arid farmland.

I was so focused on the painted lines of my flesh and the fact that if I stared long enough, they blurred, revealing images of trees, that I didn't notice the shadowed figure at my front gate watching through the cast iron bars.

"Excuse me?"

An accented male voice called out from the darkness, startling me half to death. I screeched and lept in the air, sending my cigarette flying where it landed on the opposite side of the porch and rolled.

"Jesus, fuck! Fuck!"

Diving to the ground, I scrambled after my cigarette before it started a fire and burned down the whole goddamn neighborhood. Fall or not, with the drought, it could easily turn the entire suburb to ash, and all that would be left to remember us by would be melted big-screen TVs and the remnants of power tools that nobody ever actually used. I snatched the still-glowing cigarette up and raised myself onto my knees, shoving my long dark hair out of my eyes to scan the perimeter for the man attached to the voice. The street looked empty but just beyond my yard, yes, there, next to the gate, the hint of a tall figure. Whoever it was took a step back away from the shadows of an old pine and into the moonlight, illuminating short, nearly black hair and a strong jawline. I knew if I looked closer, I'd see dark blue eyes. A classically beautiful face. Him . My heart stilled, then began to pound like a steady drum. Then I remembered that he had asked me something.

"Sorry?" I called out, slowly climbing to my feet. Though my belly fluttered with a thousand phantom wings, I sauntered over to the top of the stairs, pushing my chin up and rolling my shoulders back. Why was I posing? I relaxed.

"Is there something I can do for you?" I asked calmly as if I hadn't just scuttled around the porch on my hands and knees.

"I didn't mean to startle you." He said, in what I now recognized as a posh British accent that possibly placed him somewhere in southeast London, where my mother's side of the family was from.

"Are you sure?" I asked, crossing my arms and raising one eyebrow skeptically, "you did just pop up at my gate out of thin air in the middle of the night. Honestly, who does that? Scary people, that's who."

He let out a low chuckle, revealing perfect, bright white teeth. I gave him a crooked smile in spite of myself.

He bowed his head, "You're right. I apologize. I was just wondering if it might not be too much of a bother could I possibly have one of those?" He said, pointing through the iron bars.

"This?" I held my cigarette in the air.

"Yes, that."

"Yeah, sure."

I turned to the swing and pulled the pack out from my hiding spot under the cushion, then sauntered down the porch steps and tiptoed along the cold stone path that led to the gate where he stood. I tried to hide my surprise when I reached him, but shit, he was even more beautiful up close. Eyes like two radiant sapphire gems that seemed to shine, skin smooth as a brand new canvas, stippled with five o'clock shadow, and dark hair that looked like hands had recently been tangled in it. No, like hands were regularly tangled in it. I couldn't help imagining my own hands, dirty with paint-stained fingernails, gently pulling at it, too. My cheeks warmed, and I realized that I was fully staring at him and, for possibly the first time in my life, utterly speechless. He must have realized it, too. The smug bastard grinned at me. I angled my head and narrowed my eyes at him as if to say, "oh shut up," because I refused to be ruffled by his ethereal beauty and honed swag. The pressure of the cement pavers under my heels was an excellent momentary distraction.

"Here ya go."

I extended the cigarette to him through the bars of the iron gate. He gracefully lifted it out of my fingers barely grazing the tip of my thumb and I could have sworn that I felt a literal spark there, like when you walk across a carpet then touch something metal. He placed the cigarette between his full mauve lips, and I couldn't help but stare at them and wonder what they might taste like. He smiled and looked at me expectantly.

"Oh, shit, the lighter!" I chuckled, then shook my head, freeing a few waves from the clip that kept part of my hair pulled back. "Follow me!" I said over my shoulder as I turned on my heel towards my house, then paused, remembering the lighter was in my pocket, and turned back. "Oh! Nevermind! I have it here."

I located the lighter in my cardigan pocket. He grinned again when I handed it to him, his fingers intentionally grazing mine this time. I inhaled sharply and pulled my hand back, which only seemed to amuse him. He cocked his head to the side, the cigarette still between his lips, and his lashes dipped as he swept his eyes over me from toe to top, not even trying to be sneaky about it. No, he wanted me to see, to know that he was looking me over, part appreciation, part predatory, and would have been incredibly gross if I weren't doing everything in my power to stop myself from looking at him the same way. The urges I felt towards this man were surprising; it had been years since I'd felt anything so carnal for another human.

"Thank you." He said, exhaling a swirl of smoke into the chilly night air.

"So," I cleared my throat, "where are you coming from or heading to? I must have been completely spaced out because I didn't even hear you coming or, you know, you just materialized here like a ghost."

He chuckled.

"I was just walking down the sidewalk here on my way back home. But I have a knack for being quiet, I suppose. And yes, I picked up on your subtle way of indirectly calling me creepy twice now."

"Oh, did you?" I asked, feigning innocence, "Well, I'm home alone a lot, and it makes me a little anxious..." I trailed off. What the fuck are you doing? Why did you tell him that? "And I should not be telling strange men in the middle of the night that I'm always here by myself."

His eyes went to the house behind me.

"Are you a murderer?" I asked.

His eyes snapped back to mine and he raised his eyebrows, lips twitching in amusement. Then he broke eye contact to glance down the sidewalk into the darkness.

"No, not currently." He said with no hint of sarcasm.

It sent a literal shiver down my spine the way he stared off into the distance as though he were thinking of something far away, something in the past. His eyes slid back to mine, and his lip tugged up at the corner,

"You are aware that killers aren't required to disclose themselves to you just because you asked, right? There's no code of ethics that dictates if you guess someone is a maniac, they have to just come clean about it."

I held his gaze, refusing to be the first to look away.

"Anyway," He continued after a moment, "I definitely don't plan on coming back here to kill you. I just moved in down the street, and I've been taking walks around to get acquainted with the neighborhood. Sometimes I stroll to the restaurants or bars there." He gestured down the street with this hand that held the cigarette, one he hadn't taken a drag from since he lit it.

"Yeah, I've seen you walk by with the wom–".

I stopped mid-sentence.

"Ah, now, who's the creepy one?" He clicked his tongue against his teeth. "You do seem to be out here quite a bit." He said, looking toward the porch. "I see you, too, you know, watching me from the shadows there."

My heart started to pound in my chest, and I could feel my cheeks heat. Suddenly, the trees, the grass, and the fence were all fascinating. I tried not to think about it, but my mind went straight to the other night when I'd seen him and thought about him while I lay in bed, hand between my thighs.

"Uhm, yeah," I stammered, "I hide out here to have a glass of wine and an occasional shameful cigarette after I put my kids to bed and finish work. It's quiet."

Changing the subject, I ticked up my chin towards his hand, "Also, I noticed you're not smoking that."

He glanced down at the half-burned cigarette between his fingers.

"That's because I don't smoke." He said, smirking.

I narrowed my eyes. "Then why did you–"

"You're a mother?" He smiled sweetly, "That's interesting. And unexpected."

What the hell did that mean? Unexpected? What exactly had he been expecting? And how could someone go through life with his face? It was almost hard to concentrate because he was so hot, and that smirk, with that fucking smirk, he knew it. He absolutely knew it.

I would not give him the satisfaction of being a simpering idiot.

"Is it interesting?" I asked flatly.

"Yes. It is. I wouldn't have guessed that you're a mother."

"Why? What does a mother usually look like?"

I crossed my arms over my chest.

"Fair question. I am putting everyone into a rather large box. I simply mean that you have a sort of fire about you, something I can't quite put my finger on, something different."

"It's strange that I have a fire about me because most mothers are dead inside?" I asked, feeling suddenly defensive. A warrior out to protect all mothers.

He barked a laugh and angled his head as if to say, yeah, good point.

"Of course not. But the world expects a lot from mothers, don't you agree? And carrying the weight of the world can have side effects in terms of one's spirit."

"Ah," I said, nodding. My lips barely twitched up at the corners, "so not completely dead inside, just barely alive and dragging around a guttered soul. Like the flickering flame of a candle. I would argue that the hardest part of being a mother is not carrying the weight of the world, as you put it, but rather being burdened with the expectations of society and the invisible shackles of those expectations."

He let out a low laugh and looked up to the sky, then back to me. We searched each other's faces for a moment, and I observed that the whites of his eyes seemed brighter than normal, and the tiny red veins stood out a bit more, too. Kinda weird. I also noted that the silence felt oddly comfortable like we could just stand there for hours looking at each other in some non-awkward standoff.

I shifted my weight onto my freezing toes, rising up, then back down, noticing that even at my highest point, he was inches taller than me. A shiver swept over me as an icy autumn wind cut through my lounge pants and sweater.

He tossed the cigarette. Then slid his hands into his pockets.

"I just realized how incredibly rude I'm being. I'm out here bumming fags and insulting you and all mothers everywhere, and I haven't even introduced myself. My name is Andras, by the way. And you are?"

"Danny. Er, Danielle." I stammered, "I go by Danny."

"Nice to meet you, Danny." He said, looking at me like he was assessing something, "I should be off, but I'm sure I'll see you around." He looked just past me towards my house. Then his eyes slid back to me, my mouth and neck. My blood pumped harder, heating every single part of me. He inclined his head before he backed away and prowled into the shadows. I lingered until the scent of him, something warm and woodsy, dissipated in the air, then tip-toed back towards my house, my head swirling with excitement. Excitement. Something I had not experienced for myself in a very long time.

As I reached my doorstep, I paused and had the unmistakable feeling that I was being watched. There was nothing in the street and the darkness beyond. Still, I moved inside quickly and bolted the door shut.