The faint thump of distant drums filled my ears as my muscles tightened. My fingers gripped the tight leather and tingled as the stitching ran beneath them.
Before me lay a field of moments past. In the middle stood a young boy, his face obscured by a cap pulled over his face. He gave me a knowing grin. With a soft whoosh, a baseball came at me. Before my eyes focused on the small ball, a coordinated hand moved in front of my face. Whack! Needles pierced the palm of my hand. As I pulled the ball from my glove I felt the cool leather beneath my finger tips. Every muscle in my arm and shoulder tightened as I pulled back in one fluid motion. Forward, snap, release, follow through.
My stiff muscles ached with the long overdue use. The boy stole the ball out of the air with ease. As he cocked his arm back to give my palm another beating his face was momentarily illuminated by the sun. My own nose stared back at me under his mother's eyes. The ball flew through the air. Once again my hand moved toward it.
The apple hit my hand with a muffled smack. Looking down at the shiny red skin my mind cleared. Instead of a boy with a cap pulled over his face, a young woman stood in front of me. With painful understanding, I turned and moved back toward the half opened door from whence I had come.
In the corner of my eye I saw a man on a roof top across the street. His eyes were fixed on something on the street below. Without a second thought or a glance behind, I went back into the realm of memory.
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Barnaby. A middle-aged man of the past. Always the past. I must look in my notebook when I return to the apartment. I weave through the Sunday churchgoers. Lightly touching my skippered feet onto the sunbathed cement. The door to the atrium surprisingly stands open to intake the warmth of the air. Barnaby. I picture him in my thoughts in the dark courtroom just below the one, massive dormant ceiling fan. I do not know the reason for the oppressive room of justice and enforcement, but I do register the emotion that lies in its disturbing atmosphere. I step into my loveable kitchen and almost immediately the disconcerting and tragic image fades from my eyes. A knock sounds from my door. My pulse freezes. I am incomprehensive. Visitors. I should have none. Reaching for the doorknob, I notice the purple veins softly pulsing and protruding from my fragile hand. I pull back the door. Karen. Of course. I do have a visitor. One. Recollections of our meetings instantly become subtly translucent whenever the door opens. Somehow, our meetings that refuse to maintain sustenance throughout my daily events fall into complete normalcy when Karen formally arrives. I never fail to feel the shock of true sanity when she appears. Surprise touches the recesses of my thoughts when I see an attractive young man at her side. Now I have two. His dark, calloused, work ridden fingers jerk nervously with the bottom point of his zipper on a navy blue jacket. I can sense his discomfort at being forced to meet Karen's delusional friend. I refuse to reveal my faulty reality to this new visitor; this new young man. I feel bewilderment at my own normalcy when I say: "You must be Jimmy. How nice to meet you." He looks at me curiously and calls me "ma'm" as he asserts that he is indeed Jimmy and pleased to meet me. His voice has the soft twangs similar to that of Karen. I do not inherently know these soft tones of an accent, but it gives me a since of calm that only the soft yellow kitchen and Karen's visits can compare with. He steps inside with Karen anxiously rubbing his fingernails that have the faint line of dark colored dirt. They sit quietly at the rickety, round table, while I put water into my pink kettle for tea. I turn to see Jimmy smiling faintly at my soft, yellow kitchen. I bring teacups from my cupboard over the sink to the table. We sit and faintly discuss pleasantries such as the newfound warmth of the weather and the general dinginess of the flats. I smile at Karen as she stands to cross the room to the only exit. Jimmy courteously says he is pleased to know me, and they leave. The grimy door closes. My typical worries of uncertainty return with a dull pain. I am alone again. I lift my notebook from the used, faded green lounge chair. Set it in my lap, and flip through the pages of my past, attempting to reveal the divine mystery behind my encounters with Barnaby.
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