The front door opens; I was already waiting by the door. I heard her footsteps before the sound of the keys rattling in the lock. She walks in, pretending to own the place; I follow her with my steely gaze. She goes into the kitchen; I hear splashing water and a din; I try to resist, but my curiosity gets the better of me.
She smells different, a scent that I wasn’t familiar with. I tried to get up and move close to her without her noticing me. She doesn’t see me or even if she did, she didn’t acknowledge my presence. I preferred it that way, almost always. Otherwise, there’s just too much fussing. I am wary of the unpredictable.
I get bored with watching her, but I don’t drop my guard. I keep a lazy eye on her; she moves from the kitchen to the living room. I watch her walk back and forth moving her arms sweeping the day’s remains to make way for a fresh one. The action is hypnotizing and I feel a powerful urge to join the movement but the motion paralyzes me and I follow the movement with my eyes, engrossed. Is this how they play? She passes me, smiles in a patronizing way, and says something that sounds like gibberish, incoherent. I disregard our brief interaction. This is my space and right now she was encroaching on it.
She moves from room to room; I am soon bored and give up tracking her. I go sit out on the balcony enjoying the morning busyness; I hear and see the city waking up. I see a few busy squirrels; I hear a dog barking in the distance and feel thankful that I can’t see the dirty mutt. My attention moves to a pesky pigeon on the balcony parapet. My natural reaction was to let out a low snarl. The bird gets the message and flies away.
I’ve had a busy night and I feel like a nap coming. She’s finally gone and I walk around taking stock of the house and the minor changes that my space has encountered; this exercise is tiring me. Must I go through this every single day? This rude invasion by a thing called Anita.