He cautiously looked both ways before crossing into the center of the lamp-lit street. Cautiously, though, at this hour, there would be no cars on the street. Cautiously, too, though he had a strict purpose to reach the spot at a certain moment. He was never sure what that moment was exactly, but he could always tell if he missed it: the air would change; a wind would hit his back, pushing him away to his door. He’d oblige- simply going back where he came: into his small, one level house which served him and only him. And though he could always tell if he missed his time, he was never quite sure if he got it just right, either. He would stand confidently in one direction and wait for something to happen. Wait for a sign like he would have gotten had he missed it. But no wind, no voice, no action took him as a direct assurance of his proper moment. So he would just wait there.
Sometimes, like this night, he’d wait all night. On these occasions, someone would finally come out at six in the morning preparing them to get to work and, on noticing him, patiently walk him back inside his house. He never felt particularly grateful for these over-generous neighbors he much would have liked to wait forever for a sign that he was done waiting instead of being pulled from his little circle of light by someone who would never understand why he stays there. Some of these neighbors have even tried talking to him. It never ended well. In fact, to him, he thought it never ended at all. They would ask him what he was doing in the middle of the road, if he was cold standing out there all night, if he had a death wish or one had even wondered aloud if he had actually been possessed by an evil spirit. They would never get an answer though, because the man simply would not speak. It is not to say that he couldn’t speak. In fact, he always prided himself on having a calm pleasant voice when discussing things in the past. He just found no solace in speaking to these people.
Once inside and safely away from the noisy working folk around him, the man would make himself something to eat. Every morning he would fry two eggs and pop two pieces of bread in the toaster for 30 seconds only and eat the lightly toasted slices without butter. He thought nothing more or less of this perpetual routine nor did he bother to moderate his daily chores.
After breakfast, he would sit himself in his particularly situated living room teeming with the image and projections of comfort. He worked very hard to place just the right cushions on all the chairs and hang the right artwork over the perfectly colored walls. He even placed candles in clear vases and put them strategically on unbalanced tabletops throughout the room. He dressed the room to fulfill any occasion: birthdays, Christmas, Thanksgiving, football games should the occasions present themselves to him. However, the meticulously inviting walls never beheld any social gathering of any sort. The only visitors to ever enter were there for specific purposes to fix things or perform tasks that the man could not do alone. It is not to say that the man disliked people or even feared them. On the contrary, there would be several moments in which he would catch himself lost in the fantasy of holding the parties he had prepared the room for. Something would always hold him back, however, from going forth with these plans but that something was not anything he could place. Or allowed him to place. It was simply a fantasy. And besides, whom would he invite to sit in his living room anyway?
the honey house 