The Onion of His Eye

Mark let his eyes close just as his CD player began playing the final track. Its tune nestled down on the pillow beside him. Mark’s antsy toes strummed the cords out on his sheets. He was not sleeping. Mark was waiting and listening. Alex, down the hall, and to Mark’s left, seemed to be sleeping. John was still awake. Mark could hear his television blaring through the wall to his right. If he was quiet he could get dressed now. The final lyric hissed from the speakers.

Reaching into his closet, Mark selected a thick black turtle neck. He slowly pulled it over his head, as if savoring the texture of every fiber. Ingrid wore black on many occasions. Mark also drew out a folded pair of jeans. No delicate pulling here or tugging there; these jeans were all business. Mark forced them on up to his thighs, and then had to lie flat in order to button the skintight jeans over his hips. He picked up a plum sharpie, which substituted as the perfect lip stain, and colored in his full lips.

The noisy television ceased, and Mark surveyed his appearance. Without meeting his own eyes, he ran trembling hands through his coarse dark hair. Black Chucks in one hand, and socks in the other, Mark glided out of his room, and down the stairs. His room mates didn’t hear a sound. He opened the heavy front door to the apartment, and closed it without a squeak or click.

Mark bent to tie his shoes, and paused. His chest swelled briefly, and his nostrils flared hungrily at the darkness, but he waited. John and Alex mustn’t know he was leaving. They would try to stop him. The house remained silent. No curtains fluttered. Mark was free to harvest.

He stole into Mrs. Sheldon’s back yard; even used her spade. From summer garden he borrowed one Vidalia onion. Tomorrow he’d plant tulips in her flower bed; a bulb for a bulb. There was still plenty of time to disregard his restraining order. Ingrid was living five blocks down the street. Gift in hand, he walked with a jaunt in his step.

He hadn’t visited her house in over two months. The house itself invited memories of cold nights spent in a tree with a pencil and sketch paper. Ingrid slept soundly with Mark watching. She shopped calmly with him, feet away, polishing apples. He knew if he could only leave an onion (Vidalia her favorite) on Ingrid’s windowsill, she would forgive him. She would come back to his store.

Ingrid had the darkest skin Mark had ever seen. She used to stop in the produce section and look over the vegetables. It seemed to Mark, that she spent a little extra time with the eggplants. And why shouldn’t she, thought Mark, in this mass of fair faces maybe she feels more likeness to that than anyone else in this town. He could imagine Ingrid, standing in the sun and glistening a subtle plum; the eggplant frying in a pan and simmering a chocolate brown.

On one occasion, Mark remembered Ingrid dashing through the store. She dropped a folded up sheet of paper. Mark expected to find a grocery list, but instead found a poem about an onion as a present to a lover. Mark folded it up before placing it in the pocket over his heart. That same evening, for the first time, he was discovered. A neighbor caught him nestled between two sturdy branches outside Ingrid’s window. That same neighbor called the cops. Their ruthless flashlights exposed Mark for what he seemed: a creep, a lunatic, a stalker. He was drug from the tree.

Ingrid’s house was lit by one single window on the second floor. She was still awake. Mark had to decide how to deliver the gift. In person, he pleaded with his dread. She’ll call the cops, it taunted back. He had to speak with her and tell her about the onion, and the poem, and her eggplants. For the first time of many times approaching Ingrid’s house, Mark placed one foot on her front porch, and timidly brought the second one to its side. He knocked on the door. Ingrid answered too fast. She was wearing a navy robe, and thick glasses. She took in the sight of him, bored and agitated. “Can I help you?”

She didn’t recognize him. Not from the store. Not from the tree. Not from the court hearing. The name Mark Grates, Ingrid Benson’s supposed stalker, the man who washed her vegetables was blank faced. Something broke inside him, but he pressed onwards. “Please. If I could just come in, for only a moment. I have something for you.” She wearily opened the door to let a stranger enter her house. There was a bright light, and Ingrid glistened. He could not speak; merely handed her the onion. She took the layered orb in her hand, and brought it to her nose. “It’s a Vidalia,” she said, and despite herself, smiled. “How about some stir fry? I’m starving, and we seem to have the same taste in vegetables.”

The thought of Ingrid chopping up her onion within moments of receiving it made his stomach turn. What about the poem? She swayed into the kitchen and called, “The pans are on the bottom right. You can steam the rice.” Mark walked in, retrieved a pan, and found Ingrid in the middle of slicing an eggplant. It was a blow and tenderness in one crystallized moment. Ingrid took in Mark’s shocked expression.

“Oh how rude of me. I didn’t even ask if you liked eggplant. Sorry.” She slid the chopped eggplant into the garbage can below. “Is something wrong?”

“No.” Mark’s pallid skin was contrary. “I’m fine.” He was shaking off his odd disappointments. The pros were gargantuan. Ingrid let him in, she did not call the cops, she invited him to dinner because she didn’t suspect him. She was beautiful. Her russet hands reached for a carrot, a sweet potato, a parsnip, and finally, the Vidalia onion.

“Is it steaming.” She interrupted his notions.

“I’m sorry?”

“The rice. Is it done?” her eyes were swimming molasses.

“No. Sorry.” Mark tapped the pan lamely with a wooden spoon.

“I get the feeling, that I know you from somewhere. What is your name?”

“Mark.”

“Mark, I’m Ingrid, and I’ll be your host, chef, and server tonight.” She winked.

Ingrid was flirting with Mark in her kitchen, and all he could think about was that damn poem, and the eggplant wasting away in the garbage can. She wasn’t what he thought, and he was no one. If she had screamed, and yelled he could have defended himself; could have read the poem; could have told her that her skin was perfect.

“Aren’t you hungry?” she asked. The spicy steam from the pan curled up to Ingrid’s eyes making them water.

“Not in the slightest.”