agassiz
29 August 1997

Jack and Victoria have a picturesque mezzanine writing room off the stairwell’s first landing with unfathomable panes of glass that, during the day provide a remarkable view over the Frasier River Valley. I would sit in there late at night, posting letters to friends, reading Alain de Botton, and dreaming . It wasn't unusual for me to find Jack standing in the doorway with his evening glass of Merlot in hand, watching me with silent interest for extended periods of time. I pretended not to notice him night after night, playing along with the game of voyeurism he created soon after my arrival. Each night I would casually clear a spot on the chaise lounge next to me, welcoming him to sit, though he never moved past the doorway. We never spoke a word, never even acknowledged the other’s presence. I maintained undistracted interest in my letter, my book, my quiet meditation, all the while avoiding his heavy gaze, the way the left side of his mouth turned up in the slightest of smiles, the resulting heat that circulated around the room.

As quickly as this game became a routine, Jack changed the rules. One evening in late July, he pulled himself away from the inertia of the doorway and into the unknown of the seat next to me. My mind frantically searched for tangibles; hints as to how to play this changing game. I pretended not to notice his long fingers tracing lightly over where my tousled hairline met the nape of my neck. I became overly aware of my trembling hands, an overturned wine glass, and our eyes locking for the first time after more than a month of similar circumstances. I could hear Jack and Victoria’s son, Joshua, shift his sleeping weight in the room beyond the wall behind us. My breath was sharp and audible. The left corner of his mouth upturned still. I closed my eyes and felt him shift on the chaise. When I opened them again, he was gone. I felt the warm wine beneath my right foot, seeping deeper into the Oriental rug.