The Man in Black

I’m what you’d call a curtain twitcher. I watch the neighbourhood via a small opening in my front room. I see the paper boy arrive between 7am and 7.30am. The postman arrives between 8.30am and 9.30am, depending on the day.

I watch the delivery men deliver goods to the houses near mine. I am intruged by what they are receiving and try to guess what it is.

Lately I’ve noticed a man in a black suit visit my neighbour every Wednesday between 11.30am and 11.40am. His promptness impresses me. His clothes are immaculate. He arrives in a black sedan, which he parks outside the house, enters and leaves around 30 minutes later. I’ve calculated the delta, which is never over 2 minutes; fascinating.

Yesterday I see Mrs Philips being removed from the house on a gurney. I noticeably gasp as I take in the fact she is dead. I had no idea she was ill. I speak to her often when retrieving the post and nothing about her suggested she was about to die.

I carry on monitoring the street. Watching her family members and friends enter and leave as her wake finishes; I’m not invited.

I wake up early, roused by the sounds of removal vans parking outside her house. I watch her belongings exit the house and loaded into the vehicles. I jump as the doorbell rings.

I rush over to the door and check the spy hole, a man in a black suit stands there, behind him, on the street, I see the black sedan.

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