Writer

The Neighbors

By Jennifer Foxhoven  (Published under Jennifer Alexander)

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Every night I sit outside in the balmy summer heat to smoke my cigarettes one after another. There are many sounds in the late evening on a typical suburban street. Frogs croaking, crickets dancing, and the murmur of other night creatures. But clearer than any of those noises is the conversation the neighbors have. I say conversation because it is the same conversation every night. I don’t know anything about them but this conversation. Their faces are hidden behind a high wooden fence. I doubt they even realize I am there, a voyeur to their most intimate conversation.

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“You can’t do this,” the woman pleads.

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“Why must you always stand in my way?” a trembling male voice asked.

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“Because, I cannot bear to let you go,” she answered. I can almost hear the tears.

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“It’s not your choice.”

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“I’ll call the police,” she threatened.

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“I’ll finish the deed before they can get here if you do.”

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“Why are you so stubborn?”

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“Why are you?”

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“Because I care.”

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“I don’t,” he explained exacerbated.

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“You can’t mean that.”

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“I do. There is nothing left for me. I know I’m repulsive. I see the way people look at me. What kind of existence is this? Nothing feels like it is mine anymore. Not my life. Not this useless sack of bones I call a body. Not even you. I swear you should have left me long ago. This isn’t the kind of life you deserve. Just leave me in peace for one fucking moment so I can relive us both of the burden.”

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“But I love you.”

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“You always say that.”

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“It’s always true,” she sniffed.

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Then the night goes deadly silent as if they are ghosts that have been banished to oblivion for one more day. The tenderness of the woman’s words lingers on my mind. I imagine her embracing the man. Perhaps they kiss. I think of them as I lie alone in my bed and wonder if I will hear the same conversation tomorrow. I hope that I do.