Dating : The House that Arthur Neville Lives In

Arthur is startled awake by the doorbell. Only his straight-jacket sheets keep him from tumbling to the floor.

The delivery man is calling his name from the front porch. Arthur rubs his temples and tries to recall how the calendar could possibly have landed him on Thursday without first making its way through Wednesday. Or Tuesday, for that matter.

“Mr. Neville,” the delivery man says when Arthur cracks the door. His eyes widen at the sight of him, disheveled and half-dressed. “Rough night?”

“Leave the packages on the porch,” Arthur says.

The man nods and hands him the receipt. Arthur signs without giving the packages his usual scrutiny and begins to hand back the clipboard.

“You look like you seen a ghost,” the delivery man says.

Arthur pulls his hand away.

“You!” He says, waving the clipboard at the man. “It was you!”

The delivery man raises his eyebrows and gestures toward the packages. “If there’s something wrong with your order I can always—”

“You think you can scare me?” Arthur says, interrupting. “That I would fall prey to your tricks?”

The delivery man looks over his left shoulder, then his right, then back at Arthur, wearing a look of confusion on his face.

“The cup,” Arthur mutters. He has begun to pace. “That’s when it started. The day of your last delivery.”

“Now, just a minute, Mr. Neville.” The delivery man wrestles the clipboard from Arthur’s hands. “I don’t know what you’re getting at, but let’s all take a deep breath before we do something rash.”

Arthur points a finger in the air. “I will call the authorities, sir. That is what I’m going to do.”

“Now, that’s enough,” the delivery man says, his cannon-ball voice bouncing across the cul-de-sac. He backs into the dolly, knocking over the stack of packages. Arthur watches them scatter across the floor. “You listen up, Mr. Neville,” the man says. “I’ve been kind to you. But won’t be spoken to like some kind of thug. I’m leaving now. You can pick up your own damn groceries from now on.”

Arthur looks up at the delivery man and blinks.

“I –” he says. “It’s possible I was mistaken.”

“Don’t bother apologizing.” The delivery man shakes his head and stomps down the steps. He climbs into his truck. “I’m no thug,” he says, and drives away.

Arthur closes the door and slumps against it with his face in his hands.

“That’s it,” he says. “That’s the end of that.” He pounds his fist on his thigh, again and again. “That’s it. That’s it, that’s it, that’s it.”

Arthur begins to cry. The house joins in; lights flicker, cabinet doors open and shut. Faucets run and water groans in the pipes. Arthur squeezes his eyes closed and puts his fingers in his ears.

“No,” he says. “Stop!”

At once, the house is silent. Arthur feels a cool breeze on his face, though all the windows are closed.

Arthur opens one of his eyes, then the other. A woman is standing before him. She has short black hair and sad eyes, with a glow Arthur isn’t sure he truly sees. He doesn’t look away, fearing she might be gone when he looks back, or that she might still be there.

“Marta?” Arthur says.

The woman says nothing. She touches Arthur’s face and places his hand over her heart. Thump-thump, thump-thump. He’s unsure if the heartbeat is hers or his own.

“Do you like the house?” Marta asks, leaning forward. So close he can feel the soft hairs on her cheek brush his skin.

“My house,” Arthur says. His voice sounds hoarse and distant in his ears.

“Yes, of course it is,” Marta says. She kisses him, her fingers in his hair.

Her mouth is sparkling clean.