only rarely do the drapes crack in the bay window of that rickety old house. the shadow is there often but rarely do the drapes move. on the occasion they do she calls out to me asking who I am. as always, she quickly jerks the drapes together as if terrified by the silence that answers with what she already knew. she knows good and damn well who I am. and that is why she keeps the drapes closed, her silhouette swaying nervously behind the thin cotton cage doors.
