Where Has the Day Gone?

Carrying the next load of laundry down the stairs, I happen to glance out the window. There's a man, older, pasty, wearing a baseball cap and no shirt. He stares in the direction of my house, at his own fence. What is he doing? I wonder. I stop walking and continue to watch as the pasty old man loses a staring contest with his fence. Bored, and afraid that he might eventually notice me, I continue my descent to my detergent-filled adventure. 

The thing about laundry, and about cleaning in general, is that it never ends. Cleaning is forever, and nothing ever stays clean. I wonder if that's the same with people as well. 

I walk back up the stairs to continue my day and happen to glance out the window again. This time, the killer appears to be talking to himself, and then stops to listen intently to his plants, as if he is awaiting a response. Is it fair to think of him as a killer? I don't know that he's actually killed anyone. Maybe he's just crazy. Where's the damn fabric softener? 

I go back downstairs and jump as I hear the doorbell. I stay frozen in my place, my heart pounding. Obviously it's the killer, because that's the only logical explanation. I watched him, and now he's ringing my doorbell to kill me. The idea that if he was going to kill me, he probably wouldn't give me a heads up makes too much sense to fit into my head right now.  I creep up the stairs, as if the sound of my footsteps matter in my impending doom. I get up to  the highest point where I can see the window without being seen. There he is, the killer, right where I left him. I jump as the doorbell rings again and nearly fall back down the stairs. 

Now you're just being stupid, I say to myself as I walk toward to door, confident enough that I won't get stabbed with a butcher knife as soon as I open it. A Jehova's witness? Really? They still exist? I excuse myself by telling the lovely old woman who is definitely not at all a murderer that I'm working from home and really do need to be going. 

I close the front door with a sigh of relief and lock the deadbolt, just for good measure. Back to the window that is now acting as a television screen, I look for my creepy friend. Now he is facing away from me, walking back toward his house. I notice that he is walking very slowly. Is he limping? That's not exactly helping his creepiness factor. At least I know that I can out run him. Unless he shoots me. Then I'm fucked. 

What would I even do if a killer came into the house? I could try to leave out the side door. But what if the killer brings his killer friends and they're waiting outside at all possible exit points? I could hide upstairs in the crawl space in the closet. The killer wouldn't know about that. Of course, it's so hot in there I would probably pass out from heat exhaustion before 911 arrived. That's alright though, I'd rather be temporarily unconscious than dead. Unless no one ever finds me, in which case I would actually be dead. 

Deep in contemplation, I jump a third time as my mobile phone goes off. Is it possible to have a heart attack at 28?  My friend sends me a text message asking me to go shopping with her. I tell her that I can't go. Why, she asks, what are you doing? What am I doing? Cleaning I tell her. It's not exactly a lie. Cleaning is what I should be doing, what I was doing before the killer interrupted my regularly scheduled programming. You suck, she replies, and once again I'm alone to deal with my current situation. 

I go back to my rightful place at the window. Now the killer is pacing back and forth. What is he waiting for? What is he thinking? I begin to stalk him as I assume he was stalking me. I'm becoming obsessed. I need to know what this man is up to. The laundry lies downstairs, forgotten, abandoned as the killer becomes my new mission. He disappears into his house. How dare he! Doesn't he know that I'm watching? That I'm waiting for him to give me a clue? I remain at my post, determined, dedicated to the cause. 

I ignore the low rumbling of my stomach that tells me it's been a while since I've put something in it. I wait for a sudden movement, a flickering of light, anything that will justify the fact that I'm sitting here, staring out the window like a psycho. Who am I? What have I become? My legs start to go numb from being in one position for too long. I start to feel the heaviness of my bladder. No, I can't leave yet. What if something happens when I'm gone? I perk up as I see a flash of something move. I sink down in disappointment as I realize it was just a squirrel. I glance at the clock to check the time. 9PM? Seriously? Where has the day gone I wonder, as I realize that I've wasted hours spying on someone with no bearing on my life, who wasn't doing anything all that interesting anyway. I stand up, having developed a limp myself as my foot has fallen asleep. I trudge back down the stairs to continue my mundane household duties.  

Where has the day gone?