It was like a movie. (act four) My Pajama Twin

There's nothing like the radiant buzz of a justified interlude. I hope you're in the midst of either. I, for one, needed a little break after Gabe and Rose-&-Romeo 2 acting up in act three. Ready to gear down to fourth?

The upcoming scenes contain inhibited discretion, so scooching our porch seats up a little is advised viewing for this next reserved Property of Character inhabited by My Pajama Twin.

            Past the imperious bounds of Gabe's reckoned entitlement, a peeling eggshell address dwells quietly like a vinyl-sided introvert that just wants to be left alone. The sole upstairs front window is permanently weatherproofed in opaque plastic, giving the look of a square cyclops cataract. Two apparitions live there, secluded in middle adulthood. We've never spoken, although we did wave to each other once during the last cicada cycle. They have a dark vehicle that could be any make, parked too deep into their driveway for a sure fix. A Welcome garden flag leans into overgrowth as if regretting its intention. Their porch light gives off a self-effacing glow, nearly apologizing for being. I haven't seen a pet outside, but imagination fancies they have something mini-saurian that lives indoors, tongue-flicking soundlessly behind glass. Though I don't know their names, I refer to one of them as "my pajama twin" because of an incident years ago when I first moved to the neighborhood, renting from Rose & Romeo #1:

It was late into a clear evening in the wake a blizzard, cold-mooned & trying to warm up with a mute pardon after an intemperate outburst. I was still up, at my main gig, insomniac, pacing the living room in second-shift overalls. Another drunk, driving from the bar around the corner — Secreto's Hideaway — plowed into my parked car & sent it skiing into a snowbank melting like a spilled daiquiri in front of Rita's place, awakening the neighborhood. Across the street, a dim light blinked on from upstairs & a figure stepped out silently from the screen-doored threshold. I noticed his pajamas — they were the same pattern as ones I've been bearing for years, also past their prime. After the cars were towed & the driver walked back to Secreto's for last call, I changed into my own jammies, fashioning myself a new circumstantial bond that my neighbor will never know about. I have as many one-sided attachments as grudges — they balance out like discordant headphones of longing & denial.

I've only heard my pajama twin speak once:

It was another late night, during last winter’s ice storm recounted in act one, after a mammoth tree limb in the couple's backyard snapped from the weight. Sound familiar? This one, though, reverberated like a shushed thunderclap. From my window, I spied my pajama twin half-open his porch door & turtle his head out to one side, listening, as if his ear were his eyes, to see what the noise could've been. He said — to either his partner or the mini-saurus — "I thought I heard something." then retracted & closed the door quickly — maybe as a post-precaution, before something worse would happen. His voice had a prophylactic tone — neutralized, as though overconditioned to the shock of excitement. But I could see beyond their house, from my mid-hill vantage, what he didn't: a branch fell against the massive trunk it'd been reaching from & leaned upright where it landed, as if casually pretending nothing happened. A formation of landscape pillar lights bloomed from the disturbed snow around the splintered bough, resembling a decorative crime scene vigil.

Beyond mere attire, I also conjure my closet relation from transference — a totem of attempted solitude confined to a universe where the extroverted flora and fauna unconsciously continue their offensive sally. We, & maybe you as well, secrete ourselves, holed up within our walls, but ultimately fail in the ability to disregard what surrounds us — our shackle, yet our link — twinning variations of complex acceptance & simple surrender. United, we fall together.

Well, that reel kinda turned into a CBD meet-n-greet before an armchair therapist wingding. I avoided mentioning in the initial Introduction post that there might be mood swings. We'll reconvene lighter next time to It was like a movie. with a Property of Character live cartoon in a colorful wrap featuring a scrappy temperament named Benny.