You watch as he steps out of his midnight black metallic 2015 Toyota Avalon, the wheels melting into the black road and the car camouflaging into the background. His hair is disheveled; an aberration from its usual gelled and perfect appearance. The navy blue jacket of his Ralph Lauren suit is thrown across the top of the car, while he tries to put on his tie that, like his jacket, was once on the top of the car. You see that he is struggling to put the tie on, wondering whether it is because of the darkness that has besieged the neighborhood or the numbness in his fingers that is constricting the movement. Although you don’t know for sure, you are pretty confident that his breath reeks of beer, probably Coors Light. You’ve heard it’s his favorite.
Everyone in the neighborhood knows his name: Mr. Amicise. He is the perfect husband, with his waxen blonde hair, turquoise eyes, flawless complexion, and a job at Deutsch Bank in the building that is lined in glass. His wife fits under the guidelines for the perfect 1950s housewife. You’ve seen her before, her dark features complimentary his light ones. She hides in her house, though, with their two little girls. You know her from college, back when she was studying for her degree in literature, wild, and not afraid to let her hair down. But back then she didn’t have to worry about what he thought. Because now it always goes back to what he thinks.
He stumbles closer to the gate of a house adjacent to his. A large maple tree blocks the view from his house to where he his so even if his wife is looking out she can’t see him. The only thing visible from their bay windows is the blurring light from you lamp that hangs on a hook next to your door. But nothing is strange about that, for you always have it on while you relax on your wicker rocking chair out on the deck. He doesn’t notice you, but you don’t think he ever will. Now that you can see his waist, you notice that his shirt is not tucked in and his fly is open. You can see his Calvin Klein underwear even in the dark. He still isn’t aware of your glare.
Her name is Evie, short for Evelyn. When you first saw her, your eyes could not look at anything else. Any other person you saw after her was inferior, unable to match up to her high standards. Your first summer out of college you and her had a fling. It was short, full of passion, but was inevitable to end. Every night after that summer, even until this day, you dream of her laugh and emerald eyes. The sad thing is, you introduced him to her. He was your high school buddy, that curious yet charming boy who was always up to something mischievous. The first time they saw each other, you knew you had made a mistake, but you didn’t try to break it up, even when he asked you for her number. You didn’t make a scene when there was no white card laced with pearls in your mail or an email with a baby picture in your inbox. No, you kept to your calm demeanor for years. Even now, as you watch him come home from work, although you know that isn’t where he is actually coming from.
This is isn’t the first time this has happened. Actually, you’ve seen this quite a lot in the past month, the same messy hair and fixing of the suit behind the tree. His suit is now on completely, his hair combed back with a quick push of the hand. You see him shut the car door quietly and take a deep breath. Grabbing his briefcase, he walks unsteadily towards his house, and you feel like he is about to fall. The door is opened, and you see the blur of a bright light and hear the swooshing of a closing door. Through the windows you can see her, hugging him, helping him take off his jacket, that warm smile radiating happiness. You grab your sweatshirt that is next to you and put it on. All the cold that was hidden before is now bringing its wrath back to you. Your fingers are burning from the cold, and your lungs burn. White smoke floats from your mouth, forming different shapes.
And for the first time in a long time, you actually detest the sight and thought of Mr. Lucas Amicise. You feel your face going red with envy, and your fingers are clenched. But before the feeling of anger takes over you, you stand up and return to the comfort of your home. Inside you fall onto your leather couch and close your eyes, closing out the world surrounding you.
***
As your eyes flutter open, the memories of the previous night flood back like a nightmare. You remember his hair, his jacket, and imagine the smell of Corse Light. Sitting up, you walk over to the cabinet in your kitchen that holds all your alcohol. You’ve never been much of a drinker, but under the circumstances, you feel pressured to take one sip. Your father was an alcoholic, which is where you get your detestation for it, but nothing can stop you. Instead of taking from the cabinet, you open the fridge and grab a cool bottle of beer. Twisting the cap open, you slide your tongue down the cold neck of the bottle and let your parched throat hydrate.
You can see the wind throwing the trees around. She is outside, the rare occasion, plucking the small white flowers that grow wildly on the lawns. Her hair flies back from the wind, and she looks up at you, her emerald eyes glowing. Pushing away a flyaway strand of black hair, she manages a smile and wave. She picks up the white flower and holds it out, mouthing the words ‘for you.' You look down and smile, knowing that you are blushing. You look up but to your dismay, she is walking back into the house and reality dawns on you — she never was smiling back at you or mouthing words. It was all in your imagination.
Hurt, sad, and pained, you decide to go out. The mall is only a mile and a bit away. Maybe interaction with others can distract you from the pain. So, stepping into your once bright red, hand-me-down Dodge Durango, you speed off to the mall. The radio blasts Mozart’s Piano Sonata No. 11, the classical musical softening the hatred in your heart. It switches to Beethoven’s Ode to Joy and then to Bach. Your tap your fingers to the beat, keeping up with the music because when you were a kid, your mother forced you to take piano lessons. You were good, and with a little extra effort you could have had a lot more potential, but that is just one other thing you regret. Lately, you’ve been regretting a lot of things.
The mall’s glass doors are barely visible by the swarm of people around it. You see the women who wear the cheap bottles of perfume from the pharmacy and get their clothes from the wannabe Macy’s and Century Twenty One shops that you find in the mall. Their hands hold their cracked phones, and they wear the skin-tight booty shorts that you despise. Parking the car close to the entrance, you enter the mall, passing those women, and come into view of all the shops and stores. Surrounding you are couples, their amorous relationships blatant by the way their look at each other. You feel somewhat uncomfortable in the area, so you move on to a little French bakery.
You smell the strong aroma of coffee as soon as you step into the vicinity. All the people in the small room are of high class; you can tell by their suits, the way they hold themselves, and their professional demeanor. Behind the counter is a petite blonde who asks you for your order. Behind you, you hear a familiar voice, and you turn, completely ignoring the blonde. Sitting in the corner, unaware of your gaze, is none other than Mr. Amicise. Across from him is a slim young woman with a sort of Amazon warrior look with her bronze skin and long, straight brown hair.
The petite blonde catches your attention by squeaking a question, what you have no idea. You turn, order the first thing you see on the menu, and scurry back to your seat. You watch as she flirtatiously leans into him, twirling a strand of hair around her slim fingers. Her smile reveals two rows of glistening white teeth. On her left hand, there is no ring. You wonder if she knows that he is married. Your eyes glance towards his hand. There is no wedding band — well, there is, he’s just not wearing it. Instead, he is throwing it up in the air, catching it, and repeating the process. His legs are stretched out to her side of the table, and he continues to run his hands through his hair.
The clank of your coffee mug hitting the copper-topped tables moves your attention back to the petite blonde. You hear the screech of a chair getting pushed back and hear the rough voice of Mr. Amicise saying thank you. The bell on the top of the door rings and footsteps diminish. Chugging down your coffee, you quickly get up, mutter a thank you, and then exit the bakery as quick as you entered. The coffee burns your throat, but you follow the deep laugh of Mr. Amicise. You follow it through the laughs of children, the cries of babies, and screams of parents. They escape through an emergency exit door at the back of the mall where only the vagabonds hang around. Evading the stares of the beggars that surround you, you slip outside into the view of the blinding sun. Shielding your eyes, you follow the sound of footsteps that lead into a side alley. It smells like garbage, and now that the buildings block the sun, you use your hands to smother the smell.
And then you stop. You stop because you finally realize that you have no idea what you want to actually see. Because you know what you’ll see. You’ll see him on her, touching her, loving her. And you’ll go crazy because you don’t understand the thing that drives men like him to do such things. Men who have loving wives at home and two children who dote him, but are still willing to give it all up for an affair. Because that is what it was. An affair that no one knows about but Mr. Amicise, the woman, and now you. You are caught up in it now, something you can’t undo, and all because of your love for a woman that was and never will be reciprocated. What are you supposed to do? You are strong, with brawny arms and legs, because back in high school you played football. But he is stronger than you, and you know it. You’ve always known it.
Leaving the scene behind, you hop into your car and drive home. The scenery around you is a colorful blur. The radio doesn’t blast any soothing songs but remains silent as you vent. The rage rushes through your body in several strokes, each causing you to heat up. You tug at your tightly fitted shirt and rip off your jacket, throwing behind you. Being angry is an abnormality in your life. For years no one has seen the worst of the anger that as been hidden inside yourself. You swerve the car onto the free spot in front of your house. Your fingers are tapping continuously against the wheel, your eyes glaring at his house. Her house. Swinging the door open, you get out the car and run your hand through your hair. Half way through you stop, realizing that he does it too. And you don’t want to be anything like him. The lights are on in their house, and you want to knock on the door, shout out for her. You stuff your hand in your mouth before you speak, and rush into your house. Inside you cry, you rant, and you swear, something you can never do in the public eye. Your home is your haven, and no one, not even him, can take that away from you.
***
The morning sun peaks over the tips of the house across from you, bringing the dawn with its genial appearance. You are sitting in the home of your neighbor, a little thick-necked disputatious man who, despite you and a few others, is disliked by most of the neighborhood. His hands wave and his mouth spits as he persuades you to collect the money for the upcoming block party. You are surprised that he is running it because he doesn’t seem the family friendly type, but go along with it, for if you don’t, he will bite your head off. He lists off the names of people who owe money, one of them being Mr. Amicise. He is the first on the list.
You stand outside his house; your knuckles are white with fear and beads of sweat accumulate on your forehead. The doorbell is grazing your fingertips. You gently push down and then take a step back. Nothing. You press again, a bit harder, and when silence replies you take another step back. It is Saturday, and you know that he is off on the weekends, making this a whole lot stranger. Why isn’t anyone replying? There is the possibility that they could be out, but while walking over you saw a flicker of light through the space between the thick drapes in the window.
On the stone path, people are walking, some giving a sideways glance at you, wondering what you are doing at his house. Because you are a nothing, a loner who works for the local newspaper and is only seen in public at night and at church, and he is everything, a wealthy family man with everything at his doorstep. You start turning around but stop midway when you hear the unlocking of the door. There are some faded footsteps, a little yelp, and a crash that freezes you in place. Another yelp escapes through the door, this time it freeing your legs from their paralyzing state. The door is ajar, and you knock slightly, but you know no one will answer. All the knowledge that you gained from going to Yale, working with the best of the best, tells you not to go in. But your heart, the one that continues to be obsessively in love with her, takes over the logic and common sense. You push open the door.
Inside you smell her. The smell of apple spice and cinnamon, that fall scent that fills the shops when Thanksgiving and Christmas are right around the corner. The house is more open than yours; the kitchen and living room are in one open space, with walls the color of marigolds and furniture that is golden and brown.  It is too bright for your liking. And then you see it. The one piece odd in the entire perfect house — a speck of red melting into a yellow couch. Blood. Adrenaline shoots through your body, making your skin burn. Outside you hear a scream. Her scream. Running around the furniture, you find yourself ducking below the window that looks out into their garden. You see him, looming over her with a fist and a face full of anger. She cowers beneath him, her arms up in a protecting barrier.
He yells and, although you can’t hear, you know it is something full of invective. Her face breaks down, losing all sanity, and becomes red and glistening with tears. She yells back, and he responds with a hard slap across the face. You watch as she falls to the floor and he continues his verbal response. He is about to beat her again, and you know you should do something, but you won’t. You won’t because this isn’t your life. She belongs to him, and him to her. You are nothing but a neighbor to them, and it will always be like that. Her sobs make you want to go outside, kick him, spit on him, maybe even kill him, but it isn’t your fight.
Outside the sun is as bright as ever. The sky is a continuous baby blue with a few fluffy white clouds. The birds high up squawk and fly into the tall trees that kiss the blue of the sky. You see children smiling and playing, throwing baseballs to each other from across the road. No one knows what is happening in number 32 on Dalton Road, but no one has to. You look down at the list that is still gripped in your hand. After giving it a quick glance, you walk on to the next house on the list.
***
You watch as he steps out of his midnight black metallic 2015 Toyota Avalon, the wheels melting into the black road and the car camouflaging into the background. His hair is scruffy, and the tie to his suit is askew. She is waiting for him outside. She asks him why he is late and he responds with work. He stumbles inside, and she scowls. You can see that all the way from your house. Because you and her both know that isn’t where he came from.