Nightglow Window

Kierkegaard's Leap Of Faith
More tall tales from the files.

It was after the breakup. Lonely, I looked through the personal classifieds and called one of the more creative entries. Her name was Monica and we talked on the phone, planning our meeting for later that week. I thought my luck had turned.

She lived in a neighborhood of warehouses turned high-rent apartments. The city was falling into evening as I climbed the stairs to her fifth-floor door. I gathered my courage and knocked. From an upstairs window a friendly voice called, "Come on in Sean, I'm not quite ready!"

Her apartment was carefully decorated. Large open windows looked out over the city, and from far below came the sounds of the street, a slight breeze. Strangely, all the photos in the room were of a Springer Spaniel. On the mantle was a variety of dog-show trophies. I called up, “I see you're into show dogs.” Still behind the bathroom door, Monica called down, “Yeah, Kierkegaard is my best friend in the whole world.”

I had sat down on the couch when Kierkegaard made his entrance. Glossy black and white coat, sparkling brown eyes, he was the essence of canine perfection. He trotted over. In his mouth he had a ball. He looked so friendly, so eager to play, I couldn't resist.

Grabbing the ball I made a small exploratory throw out over the large living room floor. Kierkegaard bounded after it and in a supernatural display of dexterity, did a back flip to catch the ball firmly in his teeth.

I was in awe and was resolved to make the next throw more difficult. This time I threw the ball high over the couch and was amazed as Kierkegaard bounded into the air to snatch it like a Bolshoi dancer.

I was enthralled, my date with Monica forgotten. I leapt from the couch, rolled around on all fours with him, then grabbed the ball and threw it -- a little harder than I had intended.

It bounced once, skidded back into the air, and sailed out through an open window. Kierkegaard didn't hesitate, why should he? With the faith only the pure possess, he jumped out over the windowsill, grabbed the ball with a half twist and for a split second looked me straight in the eye with that now familiar look of triumph.

Then gravity sucked him down.

Maybe I screamed or let out a whimper, I don’t remember, but from upstairs I could hear Monica’s footsteps coming across the floor towards the bathroom door. In slightest breath of time, she would know that her best friend was gone and that I was responsible. I made a dash for the door, hurled it open, and escaped to the sheltering streets below.

When I have trouble sleeping now -- which is often -- I think of Monica. I picture her sitting alone with her trophies and photos or maybe walking the streets, trying to eavesdrop on the conversations of others -- straining to hear that voice of a murderer.

As I lay awake, I think of Monica. But most of all, I remember Kierkegaard.