The Village Itself

Across the road from my home is an apartment building. It is made of brown brick and has three stories.
It also has plenty of windows I often forget about while I go about my daily and nightly routines.
I also forget my curtains are white, lacey and see-through scraps purchased from an aisle in Wal-Mart.
Fifteen apartments. That may all house people with binoculars.

It was the muggiest night this past summer had owned.
Brenda was down for a visit and when she comes, it usually means a night spent over on my couch for her. Brenda lives in another town.
It was one in the morning, no sleep to be found between the two us. We sat slouched on my front porch trying to capture the occasional breeze offered, sucking it deep into our lungs, praying it would cool us down.
Our glasses of Pepsi sweated warning us how warm the drink would taste in our mouths.
"Tilly! Tilly!" the shout sat our spines straight as we looked across the street to the where the sound was coming from.
"Here kitty, kitty, kitty...Tilly."
We watched the man turn and close his patio door as he walked back in his apartment.

10 Minutes Later

"Tilly! Kitty, kitty, kitty! Tilly! Come here, Kitty, kitty, kitty, kitty, kitty, kitty, kitty, kitty........kitty?"

10 Minutes After That

"Tilly! Tilly! Kitty, kitty, kitty....where are you, Tilly...Jesus Christ....Tilly?"
I looked at Brenda and rolled my eyes.
"If it was not so hot in the house, he is enough to annoy me enough to go in," she grumbled.
I looked across the road, nodding my head.
Watching the man as he walked from his patio door onto the grass. Then down the sloping hill onto the sidewalk. He started to cross the road.
"Is he coming here?" I asked Brenda, bewildered.
We watched him hop up on to the curb, cross the sidewalk and onto my lawn.
"I guess so," Brenda laughed. Loud.
And I wanted to, too.
Because the man from across the road was wearing dark brown shorts and a hot pink button-up shirt unbuttoned. He had a green and white hat that said 'Bob's Tractor Supply' in yellow lettering on his head. His long dirty blonde hair was a mess beneath it.
He wore blue flip flops on his feet.
He wore motorcycle sunglasses. He took them off when he reached the bottom of my steps.
"Hi," he said. "I live across the road."
"I heard ya," I replied.
"Have you seen my cat?"
I arched my eyebrow.
"I do not know what your cat looks like," I said.
"Oh, nevermind! You would knooooow if you had seen my cat," he said.
"Oh?" I replied, watching Brenda cover her mouth.
"Oh, yes!" the man exclaimed, opening his arms wide. "She is HUGE! Like this big!"
"Oh?" I open my eyes large for him; he made me think of men and fish stories.
"Yep, bigger than Garfield," he replied, nodding his wide eyes at me.
I watched Brenda's shoulders shake.
"But she does this all the time, takes off, fucking retarded thing. And I am the one who has to come and look for her. Heaven forbid the wife come find her. Nope, instead she nags and nags and doesn't sleep until I do."
"Oh," I nodded. "Well, if I see her, I will send her straight home." I acted very serious.
"Fuck that. Who cares about some fat-ass cat, anyway?" he grumbled as he turned, heading back for home.
And then, Brenda laughed. Loud.
"There is no way his cat is that big," I said.
"That guy is mental," Brenda gasped.
The humidity might have been getting to her head.

10 Minutes Later

"Tilly...Kitty, kitty, kitty, are you hungry, kitty. Who wants a treat?"
Magic Words.
Because this very fat cat, in fact, bigger than he let on, came running along the side of the brown apartment building.
"There you are you stupid bitch. Get your ass in the fucking house," he cursed the cat.
Then he looked across the road.
He waved.
"I got her!" he yelled.
And we waved back.
He turned around and gave Tilly a little push in the apartment with his foot. "Stupid cat," he swore again, stepping in and closing his door.
His lights were on.
We watched the man pick Tilly up under her arms.
He kissed her on the top of her head.
Then he hugged her. And put his head to hers.
"Mental," Brenda was almost crying. Loudly.
And I looked at the windows of his apartment, covered in tinfoil and figured it probably had more to do with the pot plants he was growing in his bedrooms.