I See Strange People

I see strange people. Nothing so ordinary as dead ones. Others don’t see strange people. They only see normal people. But I do see strange people. The odd-shoed man who shouts obscenities from a Tesco Express doorway in West Vegas, a long walk down Long Wall away from Hullen Edge. The woman with the empty push chair, circuiting the park, giving the war memorial a wide-berth, while her shoulders shake – with laughter, though. I told you I see strange people.

Sometimes, strangers will wave at me. This qualifies them immediately as strange people, of course. I do not wave back. I turn my head to look over my shoulder. Sometimes there is someone there, more often there isn’t. They have stopped waving when I look back. In the woods, people hide behind trees, looking for the clothes they left there, the night before. They aren’t the strange people, even so. The strange people are the ones I see picking clothes up and holding them against their torso or waist.

A man actually spoke the other day. I was a little shocked. I pretended he wasn’t there. He wasn’t there again today. There were no stairs involved.

You might think me strange, if you saw me. There would be something that disturbed you, no doubt. A blurring of my outline, my shadow falling the wrong way, and footprints facing the wrong direction. These are your perceptions only. Someone else might see a sepia-toned figure, in silhouette, against a bright blue sky.

If you do see me, walk on by... And then so will I.