Anita

The old lady comes by the house every day. Sometimes during the morning, sometimes during the afternoon. I never know exactly the time she is gonna ring the doorbell, but she never skips a day. She’s been doing it for a little over 10 years. She comes to the front door, she rings the doorbell, and then she asks me the same questions, day after day. She asks me about my dog. Then she asks me about my wife and daughter. Finally, she asks me about my job.

She loves me very much. We’ve been neighbours since I was 7 years old. I wonder how old she thinks I’m now. Her memory is not the best now that she is over 70… so, every day when she comes, I tell her my dog is fine. I tell her my wife and daughter are looking forward to seeing her later. Perhaps, we can all have a cup of tea on my day off from the factory. She is old and sweet. What else should I say to her?

She came again today, as expected. I was smoking in the kitchen thinking I should probably shave when the doorbell rang. As always, I opened the door but not the screen. She looks as sweet as she looks old, and I’m not sure I like that. Old people make me slightly uncomfortable. Specially the sweet ones.

“Hi! Where is she?” She asks, referring to the dog, while trying to get a peek of her through the screen. “Can you call her? I want to say hello”.

“She is not here. She would be barking like crazy if she was.”

“Oh, I see… shame. How are you and the girls?”

“They are fine. We are all fine. They are walking her as it happens. Maybe we can go over for some tea, when they get here.”

“I would love that!” She says grinning “ and how’s work, by the way?”

“It’s fine. Day off today.”

Her eyes are yellowy white, like old marbles that were left in the rain since the beginning of time. I hate her and the whole conversation.

“Right, right, well, you work too hard, honey… Remember when I used to pick you up from school? You were a short little worker bee.”

“Yeah, still am. Short, I mean”

“Looking forward to tea later.” She says holding in a laugh. “ I’ll get out of your hair.”

Day after day, she comes, and every day it’s the same conversation. One day though, I don’t follow the script. She rings the doorbell, I drag my still unshaven self to the entrance hall and open both the door and the screen. She begins by asking me about the dog, and I tell her all about the dog and the girls. The truth this time. When I’m finished, she tries to hug me, but I step back - a bit too late for my liking. I had enough of that for a lifetime. I go back to the kitchen to think.

The next day, I hear the doorbell. The dog, the girls, the job. The dog, the girls, the job. The dog, the girls, the job. Every day she rings. Most days, I open the door (Not the screen) and have the same chat with her. I don’t like it but she is old. What else can I do? I don’t answer the doorbell EVERY day, though. Or maybe I do. Maybe I do answer it everyday. Yes, on second thought, I think I do. It’s just that she comes back later if I don’t open the door. Funny, right? She never mentions that she rang earlier in the day. I wonder if she even remembers she came. But then, wouldn't she ring several times during the day? Even if I opened the door the first time? Or is it like an itch she has to scratch, so if she gets to ask me those stupid questions, she doesn’t feel the need to do so again until the next day. Well, I can certainly understand scratching itches. We all do it, I guess. Some of us ring doorbells, some of us sit in the kitchen and think.

Years go by like this. Years? Years go by? I’m not sure now that I think about it. I only remember her daily visits, sitting in the kitchen, and thinking. Well, some time goes by. And every day, the dog, the girls, the job. The dogs, the girls, the job. I shaved at some point. New beard looks older and paler. So does the guy in the mirror. The dogs, the girls the job. Except one day, the doorbell doesn’t ring. The house has been silent all day. I wait in the kitchen for the stupid doorbell to ring. Hours, I think I wait. Nothing. She didn’t come that day. Nor the next day. On the third silent day, I step out to the street and take a look at her house. I see a man with grey hair and tired face coming out of her house. I’ve seen him before. It’s her nephew. I also recognize the expression he is wearing. It’s very similar to the expression the guy in the mirror wears when I look at him in the morning. I go back inside to think. I think about the dog. I think about the girls. I think about the job. I think about the old lady. The dog, the girls, the job, the old lady. The dog, the girls, the job, the old lady. Lady, Kate, Heather, and Anita.