An evening in Amsterdam

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.