Apartment C-36. He knew the number on the door well. Not because he live there, no, the seedy motel room with the burn marks on the carpet and the bent Venetian blinds was where he called home. The room with the stain on the wall whose origins he felt best off not knowing, and the bedspread that he dare not use; he imagined the interior behind those simple imitation gold plated numbers looked much better.
Still, he knew the location well, at least for the better part of two weeks. The alley way between the mini-mart and office building across the street gave him the perfect view of the entrance to the apartment building and what, as far as he could tell, was the bedroom window of C-36. The curtains never opened, but occasionally the light would cast the shadow of a familiar silhouette against the fabric.
It had become a ritual now, everyday for a few hours to take up residence on a discarded milk crate in the alleyway, and gaze upon the building. Sometimes he would think about the past he had once been so bound too. Sometimes he would think about the present that he currently lived in. Other times, he wouldn't think at all, just observe, and then fade out with the onset of night, only leaving behind a mound of cigarette butts, and sometimes a few beer bottles.
A few times he had made a day of it, and through it learned that she worked in a little café, making an honest living, it had come as a shock at first, and then the notion grew on him, and for some unfathomable reason almost made him feel happy. He dare not set foot inside though, despite the sandwiches he had seen some patrons enjoying, looking absolutely delicious. No, that would definitely be a disaster.
Some might strongly consider his actions stalking, though he liked to think of it as more like being a guardian angel. Of course to be an angel one would have to be dead, and far reaching beyond his own comprehension, he was very much alive, and certainly not angelic in the least.
Fishing in the pocket of his pea coat, he procured a lighter, bringing the flame to the end of a slightly bent cigarette, he always packed the damn things too hard. Taking a long drag he watched a familiar tall, dark haired lanky figure approach the building. He knew the man, well he knew of his existence, and referred to him in his head as Dude.
Dude was a semi regular visitor, sometimes he entered of his own free will, other times he was met at the door with a friendly hug. This particular time he went straight into the building. Taking a long pull from a bottle of beer, he wondered, as he often did when Dude was present, what was going on behind that door. Perhaps she was sleeping with him, though he never stayed too long, and he doubted some two pump chump was good enough by her standards. Then he realized he didn't know much about her standards, or if she even had any at all. Besides, everyone had needs, and it wasn't his business.
Half a pack of cigarettes, and the remaining half of a six pack later, Dude made his exit. This had by far been his longest visit, at least in the last two weeks. That fact, inexplicably made something in his stomach sour, maybe it was just the beer. The sun had set a while ago, and he should have headed for the other side of town a while ago, but something had kept him glued to the milk crate.
Relieving himself behind a near by dumpster, he ran a hand over his three days worth of stubble and left the solace of the alley way, heading down the sidewalk. Something within him made him stop though, as he shifted his gaze toward the apartment building.
Once he had entered it, the first day he had by chance spotted her walking down the sidewalk, and had deftly followed her inside, spurring his current on going relationship with C-36.
He should have said no to his brains lack of impulse control, his feet should have kept right on walking down the sidewalk, but the next thing he knew, he was face to face with those numbers, with the wooden barrier that should have been enough to tell him to leave well enough alone.
His mouth had gone impossibly dry. He knew he should turn and go before he did something that he couldn't take back. After all, what the hell do you say to someone after two years? The rational thing would have been to turn on heel, leave, and give up on the door that had become his growing obsession. Though now was the time for him to admit to himself that it wasn't the door that had become his obsession, though he had deep down known it the whole time.
Sighing heavily, he gave in as all trace of rational thought left, slowly he raised his fist to knock.