Tuesday, October 11, 2005
Arnold's abode was haunted by a specter. She was a pretty one, too. As he puttered about his dwelling his eyes glimpsed flashes of attraction she seemed to present for his benefit - the tender outline of a hand, a bare shoulder, or the tempting impressions of loosely-covered breasts. Despite the visual suggestions, the entirety of her form remained shrouded in delightful mystery. He lay for her, feigning sleep in an unlit corner of his rooms, hoping she might hover in range of his touch, and - in the right moment - be drawn upon him. It never came to pass. And would he boldly charge the silhouette she presented him, he found an intangible nothingness where she had ineffably stood. Day and night she obsessed his imagination. He tried to meet her eyes, but obtained not even this slightest of satisfactions. It was as though she saw right through him. That in itself should not have surprised him, had his awareness encompassed the detail that he was the spirit, and she the flesh. True, she sensed a presence, but that was where it ended. No one ever told her about the old man who had lived in the apartment before her, and died of loneliness.