By morning, he seemed calmer, more settled. I could tell by the way he poured me tea suggesting visiting the neighbors, his eyes not as restless as yesterday. Maybe things weren't as strange as they'd felt. Moving always came with a whirlwind of emotion, and we hadn't exactly been at our best. I didn't want to assume the worst about anyone just yet.
When he suggested visiting the neighbors, I gave a small nod affirming, the gesture would be nice. The skirt I wore clung a bit more than I remembered, but I didn't give it too much thought. We were just delivering fruit. I liked the gesture. It felt like something normal people did — simple, kind.
As I reached for the basket, I caught him looking at me, his eyes dropping for a second before flicking away. I pretended not to notice, focusing on the weight of the fruit, trying not to trip over the mat on our way out. I always worried about falling at the worst moments.
The house next door looked in a very terrible condition. Even worse than ours. When the door opened, I was hit by a wave of something unpleasant — mildew mixed with... something else I couldn't place. The man standing in front of us was older, his clothes stained and hanging from him, his expression too eager, eyes a bit too sharp for the smile he wore.
He stared at me longer than he should have. I felt it almost immediately, like a prickle under my skin. I tucked a strand of hair behind my ear and stayed quiet while my husband introduced us and offered the fruit. The man's gaze didn't leave me. It was unsettling, but I didn't want to be rude.
When he invited us in, I looked to my husband, hoping he would politely decline. But he hesitated too, then gave me a look before nodding. So I followed.
Inside, the smell was worse. The air felt sticky, like it had been trapped for years. The furniture was worn and the walls were streaked with brownish stains. I wanted to breathe through my mouth, but that felt obvious, so I tried not to react.
We sat, and the old man talked. A lot. His stories rambled and rarely made sense. I kept my hands folded neatly in my lap and smiled when it felt expected. But I could feel his eyes whenever I shifted — when I adjusted my t-shirt, when I smoothed my skirt. It wasn't subtle. He watched like I was something... edible. It made me want to curl into myself, but I didn't know how to excuse us politely. My husband didn't say anything either. Maybe he didn't notice.
But I think he did.
The man's eyes always found their way back to my chest or my legs, his stare lingering a beat too long each time. I kept my posture still, uncertain. My heart was picking up speed, but I smiled when spoken to and nodded when I was expected to. It felt like I was playing a role I didn't audition for.
When my husband finally stood, saying we needed to head back, I almost sighed in relief. I stood too, smoothing the back of my skirt, trying not to rush to the door.
But the man stopped us.
He mentioned some custom — a hug for guests. His smile didn't reach his eyes. I watched my husband step forward first, offering a brief, reluctant hug. Then he turned to leave. Just as I started following my husband to the door.
The man was already in front of me.
He looked down at me, his voice lower now, and asked for one from the "lady of the house." His tone felt heavier, stickier. I didn't know what to say. Saying no felt wrong, like it would make things worse. Saying yes felt worse still.
So I hesitated.
And then, unsure, I stepped forward. I told myself it was just a hug. A strange one, sure, but brief. Harmless. Maybe he was just eccentric. Maybe I was overreacting.
His arms wrapped around me slower than they should have. One hand rested on my back, and the other slid lower than was appropriate. He held me with a grip that felt too strong for someone that old. My arms hung awkwardly, hovering in the air, not knowing where to land.
He leaned closer, his cheek brushing my hair, his breath uncomfortably warm. I couldn't move. His hand stayed just above the curve of my backside, fingers pressing just firmly enough to be noticed, not enough to provoke a scene. My body froze, my breathing uneven. I didn't return the embrace, but I didn't resist either. I couldn't seem to.
When my husband cleared his throat, it felt like the room cracked open. The old man pulled back, slowly, letting his hand drag across my waist longer than necessary.
My skin crawled.
Outside, I didn't say anything. I just adjusted my skirt and tried to smooth my breathing. My face felt warm, my scalp prickled. I didn't look at my husband. I didn't know what he saw, or what he thought. I wasn't sure what I felt.
Ashamed? Embarassed? Confused?
But I couldn't find the words to explain the hug. Or the way I froze. Or how long it lasted.
So I said nothing.
And somehow, that silence made everything feel worse.