The room glowed from the television’s blue hue. The tape rewound in the VCR, clicked, ground and whirred with machinated efficiency. Myra’s eyes opened. I should go to bed. Even though Trent had not come with her, had actually said that he would rather die than live in the suburbs, she half-expected him to be asleep and waiting for her. “You know me,” he had said at first, patted her on the head, ended the discussion. But she needled him, wheedled and whined until they had packed up their things. When it came time to go, Trent’s voice grew soft. “Why did you ask this of me, Myra? What right do you have?” His whisper grew to a shout. “Live in your parents’ old house!” Trent’s face flushed when he was upset, his eyebrows cavorted across his face, “Really, Myra. Really. That’s just. I can’t. Look, you’re double-parked. Just go. I’ll call you later.” Trent walked back towards their sixth-floor walk-up.
She groaned, sat and rubbed her eyes with her palms. Her dry contacts felt gritty and hard as they rolled around her sockets. Myra wobbled slightly on her heels as she stood and stared out at the open expanse of flat, grassy front yard that stretched from the dining area windows throughout the neighborhood.
But, down there, in the bottom window by the boxes, Myra noticed a foot in the window. The white rubber toe of the shoe gleamed. Two hairy, thick and pale legs now stepped into the dining room. Myra’s eyes widened as a man entered the dining room. He was young—about her age of twenty-four—and heavyset. Clad in red plaid boxer shorts and black canvas hi-top sneakers, the intruder had tied a bandana outlaw-style over the bottom half of his face. It gave his chin the pointy silhouette of a satyr’s beard. Myra wondered if he would start prancing, there in her breakfast nook cum dining room, the sleepy summer suburb completely unaware. The prowler dropped some white nylon rope to his side, brought his index finger to his bandana.