He sits still, as if a carved statue of chipped marble in the lawn chair on the porch. His body is bathed in pure moonlight. If I were to sketch him, there and then, he would be a symmetrical puzzle. His signature tapered bowler hat is placed tipped upon his blond curls and his hands are at odds in their positioning. One lies dormant on the chair's arms and the other is at his mouth, holding onto his cigarette, fingers loosely keeping it in place.
“What are you doing here, Ethanael?”
“Woah, woah, woah. Let's not be rash here, the ladies might hear.” A smirk evades his disinterested expression. “I was simply taking a stroll and decided to pay my dear friend a visit. Is this a crime?”
“It should be. Do you know how scared I was, thinking there was a serial killer outside my window?”
“I can't help your overactive imagination. I'm sorry. You're free to see my therapist, though. He never worked for me, but...” He reaches inside his worn coat as if to take a card out but thinks better of it. “You know what? No. I've got time.” He stares at me with a genuine amusement and I just stare back in bewilderment.
“You aren't serious.”
“Oh, my dear, I believe I am. You see, I'm really this neglected wretch that just wants to be understood and I figure, while I'm in this emotional limbo, why not have a little fun? I've always been fascinated by your... chimerical catastrophe of a world. Do share. It would do wonders for my petty troubled soul.” His smile is barely contained. “Besides, Dr Herald always advised me to have a go-to buddy. In case of mass self-destructive thought. Y'know the one.” He takes the cigarette from the side of his mouth and blows out smoke into the stale air. His hand holds the stick out onto the grass and, with three quick taps of his index finger, brings it back to his mouth again.
“It's two in the morning, Ethan.”
“And your point is?”
“That you should be asleep! You know that smoky mist that you feel when you close your eyes that fabricates twisted realities? The place people call dreams? Yeah, go there.”
“Mockery is not a good shade on you, love.” He smiles and lithely brings himself out of the chair. “But I know when I'm not wanted, so I'll just leave and let you go back to those wonderful 'dreams' of yours. I don't want them.”
He walks past me and down the porch steps, following the crookedly cemented path.
I growl out of frustration. “God! I can't figure you out.”
He pivots around and starts walking backwards, subconsciously leading himself to places beyond thought and conception, his feet distinctly clumsy. “You're thinking too much, love,” he calls loudly, almost as if drunk on his words. “My actions aren't ever as complex nor as full of meaning as people make them out to be.”
Here he pauses, as if in contemplation, and takes a drag, his eyes scouring the skies. He smiles to himself, this little deceitful smile than only manages to accentuate his loneliness all the more.
“It's quite comical to me. Their analytical eyes with their ideal perceptions.” He shakes his head, tipping his hat down almost over his left eye. He chuckles and it sounds as Chopin's Nocturne would if it were given synthesizers to constitute for its haunting piano-driven melodies.
“You could analyse the lie and dissect its faults but you'll never get closer to the truth.” His sad smile slowly cascades as he says this and he turns back, the fog erasing all evidence of his existence.
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