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CHAPTER 3. Meantime on the earth…
In the late evening, the most ordinary man was going home from the most ordinary work. It was getting dark. Crickets were talking in the grass, small city birds were singing their romances on the branches, trams and cars were driving somewhere and tiny sprouts of a new life were making their way from under the asphalt. In other words, everything was as usual. An ordinary autumn evening. The man was walking along the sidewalk, looking at the green leaves on the trees and trying in vain to see the beautiful butterfly circling around him. He even took a cell phone out of his pocket to take a picture of it. But every time the butterfly approached, it flew away into the distance as soon as he took the phone. Like the passers-by, friends and neighbors… Actually, he had no friends at all – no one worth to give his life for, and who would give his own life for him. Neighbors, relatives, acquaintances and just passers-by – everyone thought he was weird, they shied away from him and avoided him as they could. But he didn’t judge anyone, didn’t scold and didn’t take offense at anyone. He just lived. And he simply didn’t notice the curious or judging looks. At least, pretended not to notice.
He often could spend hours watching the cooing pigeons, feeding them loaves of bread; or watching the crows winding up a new nest, which they will soon leave like the others that were driven out by people; or the grass and how it was changing color during the day. He watched and hardly ever talked to anyone about this or about anything else. And while he was watching, his green emeralds eyes were sparkling, shining, living.
At home, he had a lot of different flowers. But he didn’t have any pets. “Weirdo” – said his neighbors, leaving the main weekly gossips for a minute to give him a sagging look. “Bore” – colleagues echoed them, and no one could find a story with his participation, which they could discuss over a cup of tea or while walking their dogs. Moreover, he was so impolite to others that he dared not to give a reason to make up something themselves, since there was no ready food for talks.
He was going home with no idea what he would do in an empty apartment. Lately, the thoughts that it’s time to stop being alone had been crossing his mind more and more often but he was terrified of strangers coming into his soul. He was afraid and didn’t want to change anything in his life. Already near the house, a butterfly flying next to him drew an arc in the air and completely disappeared from view.
He came in, feeling lonely and abandoned. He felt bad. Perhaps he had to read something light, filled with humor and gentle irony and not burdened with mental pain and searches he was tired of.
He carefully took off his shoes and demi-season jacket and folded them so that there was not a single fold and dust on his clothes. He straightened his shirt cuffs and entered a clean apartment, which looked more like a greenhouse. It seemed that nothing in his life could change – what’s the use of changes? He slowly walked through the only room of his apartment and sat in the only chair in this room. Wearily covering his eyelids, he massaged them with his hand, leaning on the arched armrests of the chair in he was sitting in. Gently, almost tremblingly, he ran his hand over the cover of the book he bought recently. He closed his eyes again, whether with pleasure or fatigue. He thought, probably, he would make some tea. And suddenly he heard that the kettle in the kitchen was already boiling. A familiar, sometimes maddening, a
oying whistle came from the kitchen, growing louder and sharper.
He was surprised. Well, probably surprise is not the best word to describe his feelings. Because if he had forgotten to turn off the kettle in the morning, it would had boiled out already. There would be an unpleasant smell of gas in the apartment and his neighbors wouldn’t lose the chance to complain him about it. That’s not to mention the risk of explosion because of a gas leak! Yet, he remembered for sure that before going to work he didn’t have breakfast at all and thus didn’t put the kettle on the stove. The man jumped out of his armchair and ran to the kitchen, hoping it just seemed off.
“Don’t hurry…” A complete stranger told him slowly and insinuatingly, leaving the kitchen to meet him.
The man looked at the door stu
ed, remembering whether the lock had been broken when he arrived. And the “guest”, as if reading his thoughts, shook his head.
“I’m not a robber…” He said, confidently approaching the confused man with his hands in the pockets. “I’m not a murder or a burglar either. And I didn’t break your lock, George. I came in at your invitation. You were waiting for me, weren’t you?
“B-but…” George babbled and made a step back tentatively.
He wasn’t waiting for anyone. That what George was absolutely sure of. And everyone who knew him at least a bit could confirm this.
“There is nothing surprising in the fact that you see me. Do you think I'm an illusion?” The uninvited guest raised an eyebrow in surprise, continuing to read his thoughts. “I’m not.”
George made one more step back. He was nervously fumbling for a kerchief that suddenly gone somewhere and looked over the shoulder of the visitor, wanting to see the kettle.