twilight

In the new house where I am temporarily staying, an almost empty apartment (though just shy of echoing), I have discovered something marvelous. 

In the dusk of day, or deep of night, I can step out onto my veranda, arrange a thin cotton South African Airways blanket on the floor, sit on it, lean up against the wall, and nobody can see me at all. The veranda is on the second floor and it overlooks a busy highway road just a few feet away, noisy with passersby and lorries; but up in my niche, it’s just me and the moonlight making shadows of the curlicue grating.

There’s nothing else on the veranda: dead leaves, my tennis shoes drying, and an empty clothesline. I slip out the door, resisting the urge to crawl, and sit on my blanket. I put giant padded headphones over my ears, or maybe I just listen to the crickets when it’s late and the town has gone hushed. The part I love best is that I’m sitting in darkness. I’m beneath a low balcony wall and not a living soul can see me. Throngs of people are passing by below, I can hear them, but they don’t have a clue. This is one of the best feelings in the world for me.

I was talking to a German lady the other day, and we discovered that she used to build forts as a kid too, elaborate mazes of chairs and tables and blankets draped overtop. We blinked at the shared memory of it. What I love is that this empty, high-up veranda is my fort.

I’m outside but no one can see or talk to me. No one can glimpse my laptop, desire it, and rob it. No one can do anything. I’m present but invisible. I dream about sleeping here faintly aglow with lamplight, my feet tucked into the stolen airline blanket, but I’d probably die of malaria. The temptation is strong, though. If I do, it’d just be for satisfaction of sleeping outside where nobody knows where I am and nobody can get me.