Fence Sitter

So I’m sitting on a fence right? And I’m looking at my neighbour’s garden. And their cat is looking at me. Not alarmed. Annoyed maybe? It walks down the garden and keeps it’s distance like I was the pin of a compass and she was the pencil. The fence is strong, like really strong. I’m straddling it, my knees facing outward. My hands holding my weight placed between my legs. The back of my arms, demonstrating a basic human strength. I am rocked slightly forward. I don’t know why I’m up here. Boredom. I think. I wanted to see along the gardens. The comfort of suburban fences lined up one behind the other. All different shades of brown. Why do we paint fences brown? I mean, wood is brown but then why do we paint them brown on top of that?

Don’t look at me, they declare, I’m just a fence. I belong here. I grow here, straight out of the ground perfectly formed to divide you. Right down the middle. This is yours and this is mine. Don’t draw attention to me, I’m an invisible structure to your space. Keeping out those closest to you. You can grow up me, over me , weigh me down and I will hold on and barricade if my life depends on it.

I look down at my hands. The knuckles growing whiter with my weight. I shuffle forward. The cat has disappeared. A wind blows past me. Like a cartoon whisp going garden to garden. Disrupting the plants and the newspapers. Choosing the page for it’s reader. Like a sign. A sign that you didn’t need to read that page anyway. Sometimes you can just sit back and let the wind turn the page.

There’s a tree in my garden, a white birch and at night it’s like it’s made of neon cells. It glows. Effortlessly. In the near pitch black. I respect that tree. Optimistic. Resolute in it’s joy. I see my neighbour peer down, she sort of goes to question me with silent gestures but then smiles and waves. She walks away from the window. To where I imagine her desk to be. I realise I’ve created an entire layout for their house despite never having been inside. The point where you cross doorsteps with your neighbour is an intimate one. A point of no return. But one we rarely entertain. When I’ve been to other neighbour’s homes, I keep my eyes strictly to myself. Not to lurk. Not to stare. Like I was avoiding something painfully obvious. I appear casual in their homes, like we are equals. We are equals. Do not imagine I want to spend time here. I only hang out here because I live next door. Do not imagine I want your company. We are neighbours. That is all.