The Peddler

There was a crack at the top of the window where the plywood had broken off and let the light in.

The window itself cannot have been very high, but it was – being small - way out of my reach.

Even though I could not see out of the window, I knew there was a courtyard the other side of it since I could hear people walking across the cobblestones.

I could distinguish two sets of footsteps: the brisk walk of the woman who brought me the food, and the other much slower – more careful tread of the one who I was never able to identify but became in my mind the peddler.

Once I heard him stop in the courtyard. He seemed to remain there for an eternity. I began to imagine he was going to lift his feet – like a cartoon cat - and come up on tiptoe. – Right up to my window. (As if I was somehow safer behind my occluded window)


Sometimes I wake in the night convinced of his return – only to see the bedclothes rumpled and I am not in fact wearing the crinoline skirt.