picture window.
I saw it. I saw them fight. Like it was on television.
Sitting on their front lawn — on their property — I saw it all through their picture window.
A man and a woman. Middle aged, both. I first thought they were going to make love on the sofa, in full view of the neighbours. Then I saw them fight, exchange punches.
Once the conflict over, she walked out of frame and, a little later, he followed — into what I assumed was their kitchen.
Time passed and neither returned. The picture window stayed empty.
Sprawled on the ground, I heard mice scuffling around, skittering through dead leaves. A truck pulled out of the gas station behind the alley, made a U-turn and headed east.
Against the noise of the cicadas, I could make out my watch’s tick-tick-tick and myself exhaling.
The automatic sprinklers came on, right after midnight, popping out of nowhere and created an artificial rainbow over me, backlit by the street light on the corner.
All settled and almost stationary, the shrubbery behind me lit up with alternating flashes of red and blue. But that did not concern me any more.
