Anna Joy

The ride grows long, and the night stretches thin as Joe traces his steps back. Ever the analyst, he always must know where he had been and how he got there, lest he gets lost in the random meanderings of his life. It isn't enough that the power went out, that the world around him twisted into a chaotic swirl of discontent and frustration, leading directly to the breakdown of the comfortable social structure that had satisfied men for so long. That was foreseeable.

The question is, how did I end up in this specific place where I do not want to be? Even with society falling apart around us, did I have to end up in this SUV with these goons?

Was it Harvey?

No. He had nothing to do with this. We went to him. Why that house?

The girl - Ashlyn.

Anna.

Joe's memory warps and skips back. A year before the lights went out.

There are seven buildings in the apartment complex, three floors each, eight units per floor - twenty four units per building numbered one through forty three by sixes. Joe lives in building number one, close to the street, third floor, apartment number thirty seven. His corner balcony overlooks the low rugged mountains to the west and southwest, and a tree shades the space in the early afternoon. Joe watches the sun set over a small peak to the east, smoking a cigarette when the temperature is reasonable.

Opposite the balcony through the apratment, the front door. The number 1325 stares unblinking on the other side. The last time Joe stepped outside that door, he met his neighbor. Lumbering steps and censored swearing a week earlier while watching television, through the peep hole he sees a woman struggling with a box and two large grocery bags as she fumbles the key in the vicinity of the lock. This makes Joe smile. She hears his door open behind her. He does not introduce himself.

Let me get that for you.

Oh, hi. It's OK. I almost got it.

Nonsense. He wraps his arms around the box and lifts it with the bags on top away from her weakened arms. She appears frump of sorts in her baggy grey T-shirt that hangs low, hiding her stomach and hips, though she looks somewhat large in her short stature. She hides her femininity behind comfortable clothing, and this intrigues Joe.

She sighs heavy relief and grips the keys firmly. Joe turns to the side and watches her small hand slip the key into the first lock. He follows her arm up to her shoulder and face. Her dark hair clipped back in a mock bun, her cocoa powder skin soft on his eyes, she radiates amber. Her eyes rest behind thin-framed glasses overlooking soft, full lips that stretch into a broad, bright smile as she turns to thank him shyly.

She opens the second lock and her body turns to retake take the load.

Shouldn't you open the door first?

Through glimmering eyes - That would be easier, yes.

She turns once more to open the door. Her arm extends into the darkness, and her clothing shifts. The motion rustles her shirt through the void where Joe senses her waist should be. The box and bags shift into her hands, and as she bends slightly to steady her burden, her clothes pull tight against a body shaped like a perfect hourglass.

He can almost see her head tilt back, draping her hair over her shoulders where his hands rest gently. The sands spiral along the naked glass, gathering slowly at the bottom where, after enough grains had passed, she will welcome him inside.

He smiles awkwardly as she turns to him for the last time on this occasion. Thank you. Really, that was sweet. You didn't have to.

Suppressing the urge to say more, Yes, I did.

He disappears behind his closing front door and watches through the peep hole, making certain she got in safe and shut the door behind her, which she does. He returns to his balcony and sits, meaninglessly pondering the rising star. A self-satisfied grin holds a cigarette waiting to be lit.

***********

Joe's life has already changed so significantly simply by opening a door. He is now on his seventh straight night of smoking on the balcony, wondering what reason meeting Anna only once, so far, serves. After a week of wondering, he grows anxious. He can no longer function at work, and he takes time off indefinitely, his lone liberty in a world designed for someone other than himself.

He sits and stares and thinks, remembering every detail of her face, hoping for a memory of at least one flaw that might allow him not to think of her so often. But he cannot piece the details together, so he cannot remember her completely. Lost amidst a smile, glasses, dark hair. He has no idea what potentially awaits him at the front door, what compels him to stand there, but there he stands, waiting for muffled echoes of footsteps on the concrete stairs.

This will be the day that I see her again - maybe she will even knock on the door. Am I a stalker, now?

Joe loses time, and his waiting becomes more ritual than torture. He slides into a rhythm that takes him periodically from the den to the bathroom to the balcony to the front door and back to the computer. Every two hours he checks the door, and the time in between he spends thinking of everything in the world except for Anna. He accepts that this is something that must happen, and it will occur at the appropriate moment.

A week of a return to normality.

He recounts her smile, the glasses, the hair, if only not to forget her. Time soon finds him unable to piece the features together, and he can no longer recall her face. Faces, it seems, prove difficult for Joe's memory, despite it's overall length.

He passes the bathroom mirror and catches glances of a man constantly on the verge of something else, possibly something greater. Every event in his life feels more like an ending than a beginning, and there always seems to be a vast chasm of inertness in between. He loses himself in the transitional phases of life, and he occasionally does not recognize his own face.

I don't match.

Joe rarely uses the mirror. The disconnect between his thoughts and the face disguising them swells with the uncertainty. His is not an unpleasant face. Perhaps the jaw is a bit too long or the ears a bit too asymmetrical, but nothing that would avert the eyes. Joe sees his own face in bits and pieces, fractured, never focusing on one feature too long due to the uncertainty of whether or not that feature belongs to him.

The eyes, though, shimmer dark and shaded, recessed above the cheeks. They say nothing to the beholder, nevertheless mesmerizing him. Reflections of vanity lights glimmer against the dark backdrop, Joe recognizes himself once again.

It's not such a bad face, so long as you focus on the eyes.

Similar to the ones behind the glasses, a photograph of a single moment in Joe's first encounter with Anna sparks in his mind, and the image hangs, fading slowly - just the eyes.

He turns out the bathroom door, working out his scheme as he heads to the front door.

What am I going over there?

He walks down the hall, eyes fixed on the floor ten feet before him.

I don't know.

He leaves the door open as he crosses the patio.

What do I tell her?

Joe knocks on the door of apartment number 3125.

I don't know, just make something up!