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“Twenty-seven five. Jesus Christ! Who cares about twenty-seven five? What happens at twenty-seven five doesn’t affect me.”

--

He sits parked across the street, staring blankly at her empty vehicle. He followed her there two hours ago, watched her get out, slip into the house and disappear.

Maybe it’s her girlfriend’s house. Yeah, that’s it. Just two girls in there, sipping on margaritas and talking about shopping. Silly of him to think otherwise.

But then – why did she tell him she was going to her mother’s?

The house is dark, with the exception of a small flickering spotlight illuminating the address. Twenty-seven five. The large black letters cast shadows across the faded beige siding, creating an eerie feeling deep inside him.

He rolls his window down, anxious to hear the sound of giggling and laughing… or a blender crushing ice.

His ears are met only with the sound of a quiet evening in a quiet neighborhood. Crickets chirp and children laugh in the distance. The peacefulness of it all seems to mock him.

He is anything but peaceful.

His stomach churns as he steps out of the car. The sound of the door closing echoes through the empty street, bouncing off two-car garages and alerting the sleeping masses to his presence. Stealth was never his forte.

Putting one foot in front of the other takes all his concentration as he slowly makes his way across the street and onto the walk. His conscience and his will continue an internal struggle. His heart clenches under the stress.

He halts his movements as he steps onto the porch. He could simply ring the doorbell. But then… he doesn’t want to interrupt her evening with his silly and completely unfounded concerns. No, he will just peek in the window, see her watching one of those stupid romantic comedies she’s so crazy about and drive back home. Simple enough.

The first window looks into the living room. Okay, so maybe she isn't watching a movie. There are still plenty of other things that girlfriends do together on an uneventful Tuesday night.

The second is the window above the kitchen sink. Well, of course they wouldn’t be in there. He wouldn’t expect them to. It’s almost one o’clock in the morning.

The third window is the one that shatters his heart. In the north east corner of house twenty-seven five lies the master bedroom. And in the master bedroom lies his wife.

He watches the pair only for a moment before turning and retreating to his car. The door that so deafeningly closed now soundlessly opens to envelope him.

He sinks into the worn leather seat and puts his keys in the ignition. Across the street, the small spotlight finally flickers out, swallowing the numbers in darkness and burning them into his mind.

Twenty-seven five…

--

…or something like that.

I was walking down the streets of Studio City yesterday when I passed a forty-something man in worn clothes. He carried what seemed to be all his belongings and a heaping helping of emotional baggage. He repeated the words like a broken record:

“Twenty-seven five. Jesus Christ! Who cares about twenty-seven five? What happens at twenty-seven five doesn’t affect me.”

Every time he repeated himself, he said it with more emotion and more pain. It really was quite sad… and of course… I had to wonder what did happen at twenty-seven five…