J. #2 (freewrite fiction)

You can read the first part of the story here - J.

A noise outside the door, heels rattling on the pavement, but it's not her. He looks out in disappointment at his neighbor, Keith Primley, walking up the drive at precisely 9:53 and he wishes him away. It's too late now and what Keith wants is surely not important. He can come back later. Because if she sees Keith in their drive, she'll just turn around and walk away.

What if she sees him? The man imagines her turning the corner around Mrs. Primley's artificial bright green bushes and stopping, in shock, as soon as she meets his eye. Letter suddenly crumpled up in her hand. And her running back to her own house, to her two sons and her husband. The man doesn't know their names either, and yet he's never wondered. They do not belong in this world, he feels. An ink stain, nothing more.

And now, it's 9:54, and Keith's fist knocks twice against the door. Like a postman, he thinks. Neat Keith Primley, poised to wish them a merry Christmas and other such non-sense. Ignore him, if he could, but if he does, his wife would surely hear him knocking from the kitchen. And she doesn't belong here, either.
There is nothing to be done, so he opens the door.

Frozen on his doorstep, Keith Primley blabbers.

'...and we thought to ourselves, you're probably in. And we thought...'

He's missed the words and now, he can't make sense of what Keith Primley is saying to him. Letter clutched tight in his own hand, he nods sympathetically. He feels he might get away with just that, but no, for Keith is still there. Raising his eyebrows impatiently at him, yet not quite sure if he should ask again. Was that a 'yes'? And what's with the letter?
A Christmas card, clearly, despite the blank envelope. Funny, they always exchange brightly colored cards with silly, random messages scribbled inside.

And now, the man can't find himself in this existence of bland cards and neighbors named Keith. Perhaps it's him doesn't belong here. Perhaps he's the ink stain, after all.

'I'm sorry, Keith, I was miles away.'

The clock in the living room - the parlor, his wife calls it - ticks away another minute. 9:55? Or 9:56? How long have they been standing out here?

'It's just,' Keith repeats, looking down. He's embarrassed and he doesn't really want to say it again, which makes the whole experience even more agonizing. 'I was saying, we've been having trouble with our fridge. The damndest thing, only bought it last year, but that's it, innit? They don't make them like they used to. Used to be, when I was a boy, we never had to get a new fridge or...'

And he can't scream. He can't yank Keith out of his ramblings, can't tell him he's waiting for someone and would he hurry the hell us, for that would be suspicious. Who could he wait for on Christmas, of all days?

But it's not Christmas, it's December 25th. It's their day and today, he waits for her and her alone.

'If it wouldn't be too much trouble, we thought maybe - '

9:58.

'maybe we could join you, for lunch? 'S just Marla's terribly anxious, what with John away this year and...'

'Yes, Keith. Sure, it's no trouble. You come by 12:30, okay?'

'You're sure it's no trouble?'

'Yes. Now excuse me, I think the missus might need me in the kitchen. See you.'

And he slams the door in Keith's face before he can say another word. Poor, mild-mannered Keith. But he had to slam it, because it's 9:59 and otherwise, he would've never left in time and for a second, he hates himself. For being the sort of man who says things like 'the missus', instead of Carla, her real name.
He never used to say 'the missus', but his blood is boiling now and he almost yanks the door open, when the clock strikes ten.

He's thought about this for about two weeks. Often, on the bus, commuting around town, and even at the dinner table. Should he hide behind the door, should he call her from the window or perhaps leave his own letter on the doorstep, before J. has the chance to place her own?
But he's decided to surprise her, to welcome her as an old friend, for isn't that what she is?

Only he's thought in vain, it seems, for as he opens the front door and the clock strikes ten, she's not there.

to be continued

Thank you for reading,