Under the Window

The grass was wet and the brick of the house felt like ice through my jeans. I had made a habit of it. I wasn't hiding, exactly, but I wasn't announced. I was just there, sitting under her window, watching the yellow light on the bushes. In my mind, I was a guardian. I was becoming a ghost. The window was high. From where I sat on the low stone wall, I could see the ceiling and the top of the blue curtains. I knew the rhythm of that room. I knew the sound the floorboards made near the door. I knew the way the light changed when she moved past the lamp. Then the light changed in a way it shouldn't have. A shadow moved against the ceiling, larger than hers. It wasn't the quick movement of someone getting a book or changing a shirt. It was heavy, rhythmic. Two shadows merged into a single, jagged shape. I didn't move. I watched the way a moth hit the glass and waited. Through the glass, a door locking from the inside. I was sitting three feet away. The cold seeped through my jacket. I stayed until the light went out.