At first I thought it was just a bird fluttering in the open window of my neighbor's house. I hoped for a lucky first robin but nothing, not even a sparrow, just an unscreened window open to the mild air with the morning sun glinting off the tall bars of a brass bed. I sat and turned on the computer, saying as always, "Maybe something wondrous will happen today, maybe something wondrous…" It had become my mantra, especially after Sondra left, and most days it was about the only way I could drive myself out from under the covers. But clicking through my emails, the usual combination of polite and not-so polite rejection letters, I caught that fluttering again. Leaning to get a better view, I saw a woman's lithe wrist handcuffed to the brass bars, a gold band winking on her ring finger.

I stared, unable to picture who lived next door. I remembered Sondra telling me around Christmas that a new couple moved in but I rarely saw them, just their cars in the driveway. All I knew was that the husband was a trim lawyer-type with his professionally trim blonde wife. His name was Chris, or maybe hers was? Still staring, I backed towards the radio on the shelf and turned it down. Barely ten yards separated our twin ranch houses but no sounds came through the lilac-bordered way. The bound hand opened and flexed its fingers, as close to a yawn as a hand could make. For all intents, the woman was alone and stretched under the warm sunlight, handcuffed to bed.

I'd always figured adulterers, functional and not-so functional addicts, gun-wielding teens, and religious nuts skulked behind the middle-class exterior of our suburban neighborhood. So long as no pedophile clowns lived around the corner, big deal. This was definitely peculiar, though, and I crept into the living room to inspect the driveways through the bay window. The husband's flashy sports car was gone while the wife's beige sedan sat under the twiggy shade of their front maple. Christ, maybe someone had snuck into the house and imprisoned the wife. But if so, why didn't she scream for help—an unseen knife to the throat? Was she afraid of causing attention because she'd brought a lover home and he'd suddenly gone crazy? Simply just a quickie fling saved for a beautiful day-off from work? I grabbed the phone and slunk back to the computer room.

The naked arm was still there, thin, vaguely tanned and pretty. I couldn't see any of her head or body, and I wondered how she could be comfortable like that, all laid out with an arm suspended in the air. Then again, maybe comfort wasn't the object of the exercise. I kept waiting for someone else to appear but not so much as a flickering television disturbed the room. I sat down again, groaning gingerly. The kidney was already acting up and I reached for the bottle of painkillers. I kept the window in sight, letting the hydrocodone dissolve bitterly on my tongue. Everything was placid, the hum of the computer mixing with the few chattering birds, an occasional breeze rippling the crocus blossoms, the scent of the sunlit air mellow like that of tulips. God, what a day. I rolled my neck, trying to loosen up, almost forgetting the manacled wrist until I saw a puff of smoke. I had the phone ready to call up the fire department, but then I saw a second, smaller stream, the smell of nicotine tar drifting in the air. The woman was smoking a cigarette with her free hand, as carefree as could be. I shook my head, dialing the only number I could think of.

Like always Sondra picked up on first ring. "Stuyvesant County Arts Council, community outreach."

"Sondra, listen: there's a naked woman handcuffed to the bed next door and I think she's smoking a cigarette."

A bored sigh. "So ask to borrow some sugar."

"Sondra, I'm serious. The neighbor's handcuffed to the bed. I've been watching all morning from the computer room."

"You've been watching too much of that desperate housewife show, that's what."

"No way. This is real. Do you think rapists make their victims smoke cigarettes before, like, you know?"

"She's really tied to the bed?"

"Handcuffed, but just one hand. She's smoking with the other."

"Stop whispering, it sounds so gross over the phone. So the neighbor's getting some, good for her."

"But that's what I'm trying to say, the guy's car is gone. I don't think anyone else is home."

"Well, hmmm. Maybe she's been watching too much 'Desperate Housewives.'"

"I don't think she's desperate at all. The window is open all the way."

"You're way into this, aren't you? Her darling husband probably just forgot to unlock her or something, that's all. Hope she doesn’t have to pee. Bye, Frank…"

"C'mon, Sondra! Can't you see how weird this is?"

"I can but weird with you has gotten old. That's why I moved out and hate it when you call. Repeat: hate it when you call. I have to get back to work."

"Holy shit!"

"What?"

"Her other wrist! She just cuffed her second hand to the bed."

"She did that herself?"

"Yeah, crazy huh? I don't know how she did it. It was pretty smooth, just like a flick of the wrist. Man, I can't believe this."

"There's still no one else there?"

"I'll let you know."

"Ugh. If she starts doing it with someone I'm hanging up."

I leered, hissing darkly, "Hey baby, what are you wearing?"

"A see-through sarong, seashell beads, and I just had my tits pierced. Would that make you happy?"

The manacles twisted a bit, allowing the sun to shine on her pale forearms. "Yeah," I admitted pathetically, "it would."

"Me too," Sondra sighed, just as sadly. "What's going on over there-- lover boy arrive yet?"

"Nope. She's tanning the undersides of her arms at the moment. The cuffs are a little loose so she's got some room to maneuver."

"God, listen to us. I'd better close the door before someone gets the right idea."

"Oh, you love it. And seriously, what are you wearing? I miss you."

"Ha, you wish. Tune in next week for more phone sexcapades."

"Which episode is that?"

"The infamous 'Sweaty Lesbians in Boston When Sondra Drank Too Much.'"

"Heard about it already, it's not all that."

"I guess you had to be there. Look, Frank, this has been interesting and all but I've got to go. A meeting in 5 minutes."

Suddenly cold, I watched the sun reflect off the handcuffs as she twisted her arms back around. I could hear the half-deaf mailman coming down the block, sports radio blaring from his headphones. "Do you really hate it when I call?"

"Most times. Not all the time. Almost never. I don't know, Frank. I just know I hate…something, that's all."

"Well, I'm doing great, not a worry in the world, but thanks for asking."

"Fuck you," she said without energy and hung up.

I sipped my cold coffee, staring out the window. It wouldn't be long before the satisfaction of being an asshole wore off but I wanted to make the false glow last. The kidney cramped and ached, protesting against every motion. The drainage tube in my side had been replaced a week ago, and unable to restrain myself I poked where the thick plastic tubing burrowed into the skin. Everything—the skin, the tube, the kidney, the stitches, my mouth, my mind—felt sour with jaundice, adhesives and sickness. The bag strapped to my leg was full and I went to piss. The urine was as cloudy as grapefruit juice and I could tell another infection was working itself up.

I just know I hate…something, that's all.

Gulping antibiotics dry, I told myself maybe something wondrous would happen and went back to spy on the neighbor. Except for a slight change in the slant of the light, everything was as before. I figured she had another 20 minutes or so before my house blocked the sun from the window. I couldn't imagine anything more chilling than being handcuffed alone and naked in the shadows. The fingers opened again, the handcuffs lightly clinking as she refastened her grip. I thought about her body on the bed, angled beneath the angles of light, rising and falling with each breath, naked and cool in a silent bedroom. Did she make elaborate preparations before shackling herself to the brass bars? Did she take a long bath with oils and salts and all that as she luxuriously shaved and masturbated? Or did she just drop a sweaty old robe and lie down, the dimestore cuffs on the nightstand as familiar as depression? Was she turned on or was she frozen by the exercise and sobbing motionlessly? Did she know I was watching and waiting, and did she care?

The phone rang, making me jump, but I let it ring again, looking for a reaction from the manacled hands. The fingers neither flinched nor let go. I answered, figuring it would be Sondra letting me have it.

I was right. "How dare you," she said without preamble. She had either just finished crying or was right about to start. "How dare you call me while I'm in the middle of work and make me feel guilty. You are such a shit, Frank."

I wished I'd taken a second painkiller. "I wasn't trying to make you feel guilty."

"What bullshit. Yes you were, with that fucking I'm swell but thanks for asking crap. I know you're doing shitty. Well so am I, and thank you for asking."

I rubbed my temples, hoping for divine intervention, an out-of-body experience, a stroke, anything to escape Sondra's fury. I'd never known anyone who got as angry as her. My mouth opened but nothing came out.

"Aren't you going to say something? Or are you going to sit there like fucking oatmeal."

Something inside snapped. "I'm not oatmeal," I shouted. We were both silent for a moment as that sank in, then I heard her sniffle. Across the way the handcuffs shifted but not much. I said it again, starting to grin myself: "I'm not oatmeal, damn it. I'm a man."

"Okay, Frank, I apologize. You're not oatmeal. But you might as well be sometimes."

I slumped into the chair, wanting to shower and shave and start tomorrow already. I dreaded the empty afternoon, all the crispness of the early hours killed with long shadows and yellow exhaustion. I muttered, "I'm just tired, that all."

That sent her off again. "And I'm not? Christ, you know who I just got a call from? My mother, and do you know who she asked about? You, Frank, she wanted to know how you were doing! No me or my crappy new apartment or my crappy job, but you and how you were feeling and had I seen you lately and was I making sure you didn't need to go to the hospital or anything. My own mother, Frank. I can't fucking live like this."

I grimaced, poking at the tube. The pain was sharp, an infection working itself up. "I'm sorry about your mother, that's messed up. Really. Just tell her I'm fine."

"Yeah, you're fine. You know what pissed me off the most about my mother's call? It's the same shit I worry about every day but who can tell because no one ever asks. You always say you're fine and you're probably not but no one knows 'cause you act like oatmeal and either way I can't stand it anymore."

I felt wooden. Everything that was unfair about the situation filled my throat like an icy black box. Maybe it was the stroke I'd been hoping for but I doubted it. I exhaled as heavily as I could, trying to make words.

"Sondra, I'm sorry. I know this isn't right. I told you when all this stuff started that it would get worse before it got better."

"You should have just said it would get better. That's all I needed to hear. Instead you gave me your patented speech about sick people being selfish and lousy to be around and how bad it was going to get before it got better. It was like a fucking death sentence and it made me feel so totally alone."

"You're not alone." I cringed as soon as I said that, knowing how lame it came out.

"Yes I am. God, that's all I want someone to admit, that I'm alone. I'm alone when I drive home every night and all the crazies on the highway are trying to kill me with their stupid SUVs. I'm alone at work because everyone knows I moved out but are afraid of asking about it and all they do is invite me out for drinks which I can't even fucking do 'cause I'm a goddamned alcoholic but no one knows that but you. I'm alone when my mother calls and can't even bother asking where I live. I'm alone, just like I was alone with you in that house."

My stomach muscles gripped and rippled, the fever spiking. I held onto the corner of the cheap plastic desk, wondering where the thermometer was but not especially caring either. "Sondra, it may not have looked like it but I was trying."

She gave a sarcastic grunt. "Trying to do what-- lie around in saintly misery while I took care of everything? Sondra the loving nursemaid, Sondra the loving wife, Sondra the sole earner, Sondra going insane because her husband is sick and selfish and silently fucked up all the time. Well I'm fucked up too and no one knows how much I hated leaving you but I did and now I hate this too."

Crocus in the breeze, buds on the lilac trees, fever. Soaked with sweat, I yanked off my grimy t-shirt. Gingerly touching the numb skin around the scars, I watched the hands in the open window. I wanted to cross over, dropping clothes as I went, walking naked into the neighbor's house to explain that the skin around the scars was numb from dead nerve-endings but that it felt good to be kissed there. Bound to the bed, the blond stranger would understand and coo like a dove as I went down on her.

"Sondra, come here. Right now. And don't leave."

She gave a small sob. "I want to but I'm scared. I'm so mad at you. I am so mad."

I shuddered, standing with the phone to my ear, letting the sweat pants fall to my ankles, boxer shorts following until I was naked and hard with the tube and bag by the window. The last arc of the sunlight was pouring through the opposite side, the top of the brass headstand gleaming. "I'm mad too. So we'll have angry make-up sex and come all over each other and cry a lot and then have lunch. Please…"

"I want to but I can't." A harsh chuckle, "I'm like oatmeal, Frank, I can't move."

I forced myself to make the words. "It'll get better, Sondra, I promise" But then my mouth kept moving. "It'll be bad at first but then it will get better."

She gave a moan and slammed the phone down. I swayed, dizzy at what I'd just done. The sun was past but the hands were still manacled. I stood in the shadows imagining that her body was as chilled as mine, sweat dry, skin pimpled and crawling. The bag was full again, dragging at the stitches. I refused to move, imagining what being confined in sunlight must have felt like, listening through the open window to the sounds of the neighborhood in springtime, waiting patiently for the cuffs to be unlocked from around the numb skin. Then again, maybe she hated every second of being bound within that house but it was the only way to keep from leaving, from going out with nothing but April's long face in front of her. Maybe just waiting for somebody to come home and recognize the desperation, if for that wondrous moment alone.

Tobias Seamon (NY)  is the author of a novel, The Magician's Study (Turtle Point Press, 2004) and a chapbook, Loosestrife Along the River Styx (FootHills Publishing, 2004). His writing has been twice-nominated for a Puschart Prize and has appeared in CutBank, Diagram, Smartish Pace, and elsewhere.