Entrance: «Woncha Come on Home» [mp3]
Maybe there's a man living with a woman. Maybe he's at home at night while she works late. Maybe there's been a spate of muggings and rapes lately. Maybe even murder. Maybe sometimes he calls her about the time she finishes at night. Maybe on this particular night he doesn't, for fear of stifling her. (Maybe even because he doesn't want her to know just how much he thinks of her, or that he even longs for her or isn't perfectly content when she's not around—because maybe she'd take advantage of this, or else lose interest.)
But maybe he does miss her whenever she's not around; and maybe he's not used to missing anyone like that—maybe this worries him. Still, maybe he hates to be alone, and now he's alone. And maybe he knows full well that she goes drinking sometimes with her colleagues after work, and maybe it occurs to him that he could phone her up and join them. But maybe he has work in the morning.
And maybe the thought of her having fun while he has to get up early doesn't bother him as much as some vague and unworded jealousy at her enjoying herself with other people (maybe a man). And maybe this thought makes him more adamant (spitefully, like a child) not to give in to his worry, but rather continue to not quick-dial her—to not show her he cares (and definitely not that he misses her company or, God forbid!, is the least bit jealous).
But maybe the hours pass sleeplessly by and she's still not home. Maybe he keeps looking at the clock—maybe because he's made a resolution to himself not to call until a certain time, when calling her would seem reasonable (and in no way an act of longing, or at least not jealousy). And maybe just moments before the agreed-upon time he'd made with himself, he can hear familiar footsteps on the staircase, then the fumbling key and dodging lock, listening intently until the door shuts again and he hears her sigh and throw her shoes off, at which point maybe he pretends to be fast asleep, with only a couple or so hours left by now until he has to get up for work.
And maybe—just maybe—she stalled and came home this late on purpose, to make him wait, to make him long, to treat him mean'n'keep him keen, for the same reasons he never called?
Maybe that was a long time ago. Maybe she's not coming home anymore. Maybe there's nothing left to fear, because maybe the «man standing on the corner» whose «evil eyes are shining through» the window doesn't pose a threat, as much as represent one that's already come to pass?
Maybe.
Maybe there's a man living with a woman. Maybe he's at home at night while she works late. Maybe there's been a spate of muggings and rapes lately. Maybe even murder. Maybe sometimes he calls her about the time she finishes at night. Maybe on this particular night he doesn't, for fear of stifling her. (Maybe even because he doesn't want her to know just how much he thinks of her, or that he even longs for her or isn't perfectly content when she's not around—because maybe she'd take advantage of this, or else lose interest.)But maybe he does miss her whenever she's not around; and maybe he's not used to missing anyone like that—maybe this worries him. Still, maybe he hates to be alone, and now he's alone. And maybe he knows full well that she goes drinking sometimes with her colleagues after work, and maybe it occurs to him that he could phone her up and join them. But maybe he has work in the morning.
And maybe the thought of her having fun while he has to get up early doesn't bother him as much as some vague and unworded jealousy at her enjoying herself with other people (maybe a man). And maybe this thought makes him more adamant (spitefully, like a child) not to give in to his worry, but rather continue to not quick-dial her—to not show her he cares (and definitely not that he misses her company or, God forbid!, is the least bit jealous).
But maybe the hours pass sleeplessly by and she's still not home. Maybe he keeps looking at the clock—maybe because he's made a resolution to himself not to call until a certain time, when calling her would seem reasonable (and in no way an act of longing, or at least not jealousy). And maybe just moments before the agreed-upon time he'd made with himself, he can hear familiar footsteps on the staircase, then the fumbling key and dodging lock, listening intently until the door shuts again and he hears her sigh and throw her shoes off, at which point maybe he pretends to be fast asleep, with only a couple or so hours left by now until he has to get up for work.
And maybe—just maybe—she stalled and came home this late on purpose, to make him wait, to make him long, to treat him mean'n'keep him keen, for the same reasons he never called?
Maybe that was a long time ago. Maybe she's not coming home anymore. Maybe there's nothing left to fear, because maybe the «man standing on the corner» whose «evil eyes are shining through» the window doesn't pose a threat, as much as represent one that's already come to pass?
Maybe.
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