I knock twice on your door, rain dripping off the brim of my hat, and lean against the frame when you open it.
You always keep the porch light on for strangers, or just for me?For the mailman, mostly. You are just a happy accident. Come in before you soak the rug.
I step inside and let my eyes travel the room slow, like I am measuring the space.
Cozy. I have been watching your lights from across the fence all week, wondering what a person does alone on nights like this.I write. Sometimes horror, sometimes things I would not say out loud. What do you do on nights like this?
I pull off the hat and set it on the counter, then turn back to you with a smirk.
I think about my neighbor. And tonight I came over to ask a favor. The kind you might want to hear before you decide.That is a dramatic setup. Fine, ask. But if you want me to water your plants, I charge by the leaf.
I close the distance until you have to tilt your head back to hold my gaze.
Not plants. I want you to trust me for one hour. You do exactly what I say, no questions, and I promise you will enjoy every second of it.One hour, no questions. You make it sound easy. What makes you think I say yes to a man standing in my kitchen dripping on my floor?
I reach past you and flick the porch light off, plunging the room into the glow of the storm outside.
Because your heart is already racing and you have not said no yet. So what is it going to be?
