No one really knows his name but he is known in our neighbourhood, Killarney, Johannesburg. Not as someone with any form of proven identity, but by the rumours and assumptions of people; especially those of our neighbours’.
He is average in height, and young, with long dark brown hair, and a well maintained, medium length beard. His complexion is rather unique. No one knows where on earth he’s from but rumour has it that he is Latino. He has that olive-coloured skin, with hazel coloured eyes, and light red lips.
One thing everyone knows about him is that he dresses well. Usually in a slim fit, black, collar shirt with the first few buttons open, the sleeves rolled up to his elbow. He always wears light blue, faded jeans with dark brown shoes that match his hair colour. And many bracelets that he wears on both his wrists. Some believe that each bracelet represents something for him; maybe a lost friend, or a broken heart.
His life is like a classic, valuable, untouched painting. It looks the same whenever you look at it, but you notice a new detail every time you carefully pay attention.
He leaves his apartment at 7am every morning and comes back home at 6pm, just before the sunset. No one knows what he does during those eleven hours. He seems very intimidating, so no one dares to approach him to ask all these unanswered questions.
Just after a few minutes after he gets back from wherever he goes, we see him in his balcony with a plate filled with seeds and rice to feed the pigeons. He is like a God to these Pigeons. It makes perfect sense though. If someone fed me every day without asking me questions or imposing commandments upon my life, I would see them as a God too.
He leaves the plate on the very edge of his balcony. Immediately you see pigeons flying his way. It doesn’t take them long to finish all the seeds and the rice.
After the pigeons finish eating, they fly away like ungrateful beings, satisfied, leaving nothing behind but shit, for their so called “God”. But if you think about it, they don’t differ much from us as humans. Its only when we’re desperate that we think about our “God” and pay him a visit. When the problem is solved, we leave him, satisfied, and ungrateful, too.
When the pigeons are gone he cleans his balcony. When he’s done, he takes the plate back in and comes back with a glass of red wine and a book. He switches the balcony’s light on and sits there reading his book and drinking his wine. In between reading, he stands up and leans over the edge of the balcony. He lights a cigarette and stares into, what appears to be, beyond what we see.
He is not completely a loner. He usually has visitors, especially on Saturdays. Our elder Jewish neighbour tells me that all his visitors are women. “Not any sort of women” she says, but rather “very classy girls… and as mysterious as him”. She always asks me to find out who these women are and I keep telling her that I would never interfere with someone else’s life. The people in the neighbourhood are worried that these women are prostitutes.
I have seen one of these women. She was a true beauty. She had long black hair. Her body is hard to describe in words. She looked like some ideal woman that every married man fantasises and masturbates to when their wives are not satisfying their needs. She was either the 100% perfect woman on the planet, or the clothes she wore created that illusion. She had amazing curved calves and thighs; not to mention her back. Her abs were flat and her breasts were big; perhaps a D cup. Her face was so beautiful that one would assume God was a bit too kind to her when she/he created her. She had big light brown eyes, with a small nose and small red lips. I have seen her only twice but on neither of the occasions was she wearing any makeup.
The second time I saw her I noticed that she had a wedding ring on. I just thought to myself that our anonymous neighbour is more mysterious than I thought he is. What made me curious was that his visitors’ visits would never last longer than two or three hours. Just like our elder Jewish neighbour, I was convinced that his visitors visit him for the perfect crime of love. I was sure they were visiting him for nothing but for having sex.
At times I wish I had his life instead of being responsible for my child as a single mother. At times I have thought of knocking on his door and forcing him to notice me. Maybe I could also become one of his mysterious lovers. For now, though, I’ll settle with masturbating to the thought of him, naked, and on top of me.