after Rear Window
Oh, the fuss made of the man in the baby blue pajamas, especially with now not one but two broken legs! Of course he’s a hero. And of course he deserves all the cakes and the casseroles delivered by the dancer and the fire-escape sleepers; had he not been watching from his wheelchair, the sick man above me would’ve gotten away with it, scattering his poor wife across the parks and gutters of our city. But the man in the baby blue pajamas is sick, too, you see, though differently. Despite there being nothing lurid left for him to watch, he hasn’t stopped watching—at least not me. In fact, he’s grown even more observant. I do my best to ignore his eyes, but often I feel them kettle-hot on my skin, magnified by his binoculars and telephoto lenses to the size of inflamed and juddering egg yolks. In my dreams, I puncture them with a flame-darkened needle and squeeze out their juices. Awake, all I can manage are occasional quick glances their way. I never see anything but the dark square of his window, but I know he’s there, peering from the shadows, nursing unholy rhythms.
