sicpowered

He admits himself into the house, as silent as the ghost of a cat. Stalking from the front door, He skirts one side of the hallway, mere inches from sliding along the length of the wall. A large bundle is crushed to His side under the pressure of His bare forearm. The cold night still clings to his skin. At every door He pauses to listen, intently soaking up every sound. A high-pitched squeal drifts down the corridor, and the corner of His mouth twitches slightly. The mans face constricts in concentration. The slightest creak in the floorboards causes him to pause for an agonizing and interminable amount of time. Patience, He has time in abundance, for the elder Smiths will not be home for the rest of the evening, and like till the end of the next. Reaching the end of the hall, He comes to a door slightly ajar. Light spills from the three-inch gap and into the dark hallway like a knife slashing through pudding. His right eye blinks wild, lame in the bright light, as He peeks into the room. Two small girls sit on their parents bed, one ten-years old and the other no more than a day past eight. He smiles, and stares as they giggle and laugh. Lizabeth, the older of the two, is gleefully grinding a naked Ken to a topless, headless Barbie. Delilah is sitting with her hands over her mouth, giggling with ferocious intensity. He leans heavily against the door jam, a long slow sigh creeping from his open mouth. The girls play blissfully unaware of the watcher at the door.
He slowly rips his glance away from the play inside, and slips back down the hall. At the second doorway on the right He pauses. He steps lightly onto the linoleum of the kitchen and moves to the countertop. He lets the bundle loose on the counter, its contents spilling out. His hand blocks the spillage and caressing the cold tiles slides over the cookie jar and to the large wooden knife block. Calloused fingers dance lightly amongst the handles of the knives, carefully choosing the proper one for the task at hand. His face is as still as ice as two diminutive figures pad into the kitchen behind him. Just as He realizes the little girls presence and begins to turn, the harsh overhead lights flicker to life. Blinded He drops the knife to the counter, spins around, and raises his hands to shield His eyes. The girls stand still and stare at the six-foot man, struck dumb with surprise, His own fear a mask across frozen features. Lizabeth lets loose a little gasp, and Delilahs face shifts from smile to frown.
Uncle Harwy, where our sammiches, cries Delilah, hands on hips. Mommy said to make for us the p.b.j. sammiches!
Lizabeth skips to His side and smiles sweetly. He turns to the counter as the girls begin pining and tugging on His pant legs. He spreads peanut butter to wonder bread and winces as high-pitched squeals pierce into his ears.

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little breaths of light, a soft strong supple swing of arms and legs and hair. we dance, alone in the night, together