Greg tugged at the hood of his jacket, pulling
it further over his head in an attempt to seal in the warm steam of his breath. A bitter breeze
blustered through the canals. Small wooden boats were tossed achingly from side
to side; their edges creaked, their ropes pulled tight. Greg placed his hands
deeply in his pockets. It was late, and in the dark night’s sky the water
churned like thick black oil, burning street lamps like ever lasting flames.
The yellowed beaconed lights from houses nearby
streamed outwards to the street; as enticing and warm as soft firelight. The
city’s medieval stillness was quickly disturbed by a sharp movement from a
third floor window. Greg looked up and saw a dark silhouette standing over him.
Watching his every step.
The silent figure was thin and tall - like a
classic Dutchman – and pressed so close to the glass his nose practically
touched it. Greg stared right toward him, yet the figure did not stir. Instead,
his slinky silhouette twisted forwards with a gentle grace, observing Greg
closer – as if he were holding up a magnifying glass to the minutest bacteria
and watching it squirm.
The package. Greg frantically dug his hands
into his inner jacket pocket: his heart racing. But there it still was, nestled
as safe and protected as an egg – and, as he ran his thumb along it’s smooth surface,
a liquid calm dissolved the anxiety that had flooded him. Greg looked back
toward the window- and the man still stared down. In the gleam of the moonlight
they stood face to face. The only thing that separated them was the rain-drizzled
window pane, dramatically rattling in the wind. Greg couldn’t turn away.
Something was connecting them. Pulling them
together with a force that left both frozen. A bike, hurtling out of nowhere,
suddenly brushed passed, forcing Greg to make a small jump out of the cycle
lane and back into the centre of the street. And, just like a tiger that had startled
it’s prey, the man at the window retreated, as mysteriously as he had appeared.
