I need to rule her out as a suspect, and I also don’t want to spend Saturday alone in my apartment reading. Helen lives on the third floor, and her blinds are open, so I have a clear view into her place. She stands in front of a full-length mirror in her bedroom practicing a sleight of hand with one of her clove cigarettes. The unlit cigarette appears, disappears, reappears, and changes hands with quick, confident waves and gestures. I watch her practice the same three or four motions a thousand times and each time seems identical. From my profile view I can sometimes see the vanished cigarette sticking out from beneath one of her slightly cupped palms. My eyes glaze over from the repetition. After more than an hour, she lights the cigarette and leaves the room. I keep my binoculars aimed at her bedroom window until I see the front door of her building open. Helen moves with purpose toward me, thin twirls of smoke clawing at her face. I panic, drop the binoculars, release the backrest on my seat and lie flat, knowing that if she’s seen me, this won’t help at all.
