It
started off as a vigilance job I had been given, on the elder sister
suspected murderer of the victim, quite a well know queen of heart in
tabloid magazines, television and, some said - in malicious idle talk
and gossip - sometimes queen of the bed too. She was killed in such a
nasty manner, with strong indication of jealousy In the blood. I hope I would be given this case to follow up, maybe to solve.
The police chief reckoned: "Look, she is 45 years old, 8 years older than the sister, and nobody had ever paid her any kind of attention. While her sister was beautiful, admired and famous, she is plain, seamstress and poor. She sewed all the pretty dresses for the performance of the sister without being paid anything. When the star got married, she hand sewed, stitch by stitch, the wedding gown for her.
"But we need proof", concluded the police chief. "She had installed herself in the sister's apartment to look after her. We have rented another right opposite, from there you can observe well her movements. You even have your own letter box, with a false name of course, in the foyer."
So armed with field glasses I installed myself in the empty apartment and imagined myself a spy. Let's face it, I was so bad on the job that ever since the first day I had the sensation that she knew what I was up to. But the game must go on.
Theresa, the elder sister of the demised, was the kind of woman no men would give a second look, not even the first and only look. It's strange that she continued to sew for hours everyday making or improving dresses for her dead sister. She would sometimes try on the dresses and once or twice I thought I saw her with tears in her eyes. It's easy to imagine her life, never anybody paying her the least attention, pretty dresses were all for the other, and I felt rather sorry for her. I am in a way quite alone too. The watcher and the watched, loners in life and nobodies in the world.
It might just be my imagination, but lately I have the feeling that she tries on the dresses for Me! She would turn this and that way, and smiles inquisitively as though she was asking for my approval. And, I notice too that there are no more tears. We each do our own thing sort of communicating wordlessly.
Then one day I received the order to stop watching the woman. They had found the murderer: the ex-husband. That very afternoon, I checked the letter box for the last time and I found a handwritten note: "Excuse me, Sir. You don't know me. I only wish to thank you for paying me so much attention; nobody has ever done that before."
My heart gave a sudden leap and I hastily wrote a note to put it in her letter box: "Excuse me Miss, Nobody has ever been so kind as to thank me for anything I have done. Please permit me to invite you for dinner? Ah, yes, if you will, put on that pale blue dress you tried on last night ... It looks fabulous on you."
Tags:excusemesir,excusememiss
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