4-07

like the shoes Will saw in public places in Iraq. The white stucco villa that belongs to the no trespassing sign is worth at least $15 million. The electronic blinds are down, and she is probably on the couch in the great room, watching another movie on the retractable screen that covers an expanse of glass facing the sea.

From Will's perspective, outside looking in, the movie plays backward. He scans the beach, scans the nearby empty houses. The dark overcast sky hangs low and thick, as the wind gusts in fierce fits and starts.

He steps up on the boardwalk and follows it toward the gate that separates the outside world from the backyard as images on the big movie screen flash backward. A man and woman fucking. His pulse quickens as he walks, his sandy footsteps quiet on the weathered boards, actors flashing backward on the movie screen, fucking inside an elevator.

The volume is low. He can barely hear the thudding and moans, those sounds that sound so violent as characters fuck in Hollywood, and then there is the wooden gate, and it is locked. He climbs over it and goes to his usual place at the side of the house.

Through a space between the window and the shade he has watched her on and off for months. Watched her pace and cry and pull out her hair. She never sleeps at night, is afraid of the night, afraid of storms.

She watches movies all night and into the morning. She watches movies when it rains, and if there's thunder she turns the volume up very loud, and when the sun is bright she hides from it.