Seashell

Wherein a patient admires the view.

Frederick locked his door with established precision: three turns clockwise (not four, four was excessive), pull, up 23 cm, insert key, three turns clockwise, pull, check the lock by pushing with the other hand, adjust the hem of the jacket, turn around, walk to the stairs, 17 steps.

Someone was coming. Frederick hesitated. He knew he was supposed to go out for a short walk only—he’d been pushing it these last few weeks. Hopefully, nobody had clocked him. That Allen guy was quite possibly the sort to snitch, but… He checked his phone. 4:37. Dr Bosch at 5:30—essential medical appointment, perfectly legitimate. The police couldn’t argue with mental health treatment, could they? A young woman reached the landing. Vest top, sandals, fluorescent cap, delicate ears, copper ponytail swaying enticingly over the nape of her neck. Nice body, Samantha-type. Are you bringing something for me? Yes. She checked her tablet. Oh, no, sorry, that’s for someone else. She turned around and pressed Allen’s buzzer. Frederick descended as the door opened—caught the smell of female perspiration mixed with… Liquid Love? Vanilla Sex?… Nah!

Second floor: That insufferable mutt growled behind the door.

First floor: Frederick reached the layer where Jon Marduke’s humming TV and heat bled through the walls (female newsreader, Samantha probably).

Ground floor: the handyman with his drill at the front door. Outside, sun-drenched pavement. Peak female traffic would begin soon. Though these days, peak hour wasn’t much of a peak at all. Just essential workers.

Frederick still enjoyed the sight of beautiful young women passing by. Following them on the street was one of his peculiar hobbies—his torment, the precise agony he was craving. So, he kept following, driven by the desire to scrutinise their features, to behold the woman whose countenance had to match the slender figure, the square shoulders, the flat back, the svelte waist, the swaying hips, the sumptuous derrière, the lissom legs, the shapely calves and ankles, and especially the flowing hair, with these pearly ears hidden beneath. He fantasised about confronting them and forcing them to acknowledge him, but never be caught watching. So he followed them down the street, being careful not to be too obvious, craning his neck to see them in the crowd. He didn’t trail women, mind you. He admired them from a two-lamppost distance, dodging stares, hoping they wouldn’t turn around too quickly, catch his indiscreet ogling, and judge him as some weirdo. He averted his eyes whenever someone came in the opposite direction, a policeman? another ‘predator’ who recognised the game, noticed him looking? No, Doctor, I haven’t been following anyone. Just essential journeys. Straight there, straight back. But in the end, if they looked back at him, it was often (always) the same disappointment. The woman would give him a swift, lifeless glance and dash across the road, leaving him behind. Another Samantha, most of the time. Or a Jessica. Frederick remembered when women had names. Real names. Before they all became… That’s when he started seeing Dr Bosch. But that’s for—no. Not now.

Now, he stood inside the DLR carriage, phosphorescent arrow zooming in a giant maze of glass office buildings. A few grab poles away, across the aisle, he noticed yet another young woman exerting her pull upon his mind. Like most people, she was looking down at her lap, face mask on, browsing her phone. He stole quick looks at her, brief sips, every few seconds, pretending to check the station name, each time the train stopped. The girl was a brunette with dark, tilted eyes; her hair fanned across her shoulders, framing a graceful profile that acted as a beacon. She wore a leather jacket, a belted skirt, long boots crossed at the ankles. She brushed her hair from her face, pulled it back, and he caught the shape of her ear, delicately hemmed and coiled like a seashell or mushroom. Observing her without being seen made his back shiver and produced a slight erection. Clouds drifted across the window beyond her head, propelling the voyage into the sluggish afternoon, hills and buildings and parakeets flying toward the distant sun. The girl sat there, leaning against the handrail, her hair swaying, ear exposed. Was she going to get off before him? What was she up to later that day? The girl shifted, uncrossed her legs. Frederick held his hand on his thigh, pressed against the fabric. If she looked up at him now, she would petrify him—Medusa-like—with a look of utter disdain.

Where I’m going? I will not tell you. Why would you even ask? I don’t want your judgment; tired of being described and commented on. I just exist. What’s your issue anyway? We all know what you are. Even through the masks. Especially through the masks. They can smell it on you. Naughty boy. Dirty little man. You think you can go on like this? You think I don’t see you? I see everything. I’m just waiting. And then I’ll be gone, and you’ll be left with nothing but your cock...

Meanwhile, the girl kept scrolling silently, and the train lurched slightly.

Frederick looked around the carriage; he noticed the contrast between the women seated in the row in front of him. That woman to the right must have been in her 30s, already showing her age—belly, thighs, double chin. Her eyes looked tired. And to the left, a girl about the same age was engaged in an animated conversation, pulling her facemask up and down as she spoke. She seemed lively and happy. One was a Jessica, for sure, and the other still a Samantha. This, Frederick mused, represented a fundamental, unintentional inequality. It was stark, based on looks, imposed by the randomness of nature or society. Like being born rich or poor, subjected to the laws of nature. It didn’t matter as much for males as for females, Frederick remarked. The girl’s ear twitched. Did she hear? Can they all hear?

You think you’re so clever with your Samantha/Jessica system… Such big thoughts for such a naughty little boy. Does Dr Bosch know about these ‘remarks’? Does he know what you’re really thinking when you make your ‘observations’?

Frederick’s hand gripped the metal pole, feeling its warmth from other passengers’ palms. He shifted his grip higher, finding a cooler spot. Not so in other species, though—he ploughed forth with his line of argument. In many bird species, the male was expected to have impeccable plumage—peacocks, pheasants, ducks, mandrills (though mandrills, plumage?… whatever). In humans, the dynamic was reversed. Females were the magnets. Males, by contrast, were drab, unremarkable, even in a Tom Ford suit. Men made the first move, yes. But the very first move? That was hers. Involuntary, unintentional—but hers.

Frederick’s grip tightened on the pole, forcing his eyes to the adverts above their heads: ‘British Gas. Save 20%.’ Outside the window, tower blocks flashed by in a concrete rhythm—estate, estate, estate, shopping centre, estate, estate, estate. The girl with the phone adjusted her position, leather jacket creaking, releasing a faint wave of perfume. Vanilla. They all wore vanilla now. Speaking of which: subtleties emerged when intentionality entered the equation. Intentional signals such as perfume—like this vanilla—, or clothing adjustments, or exposed shoulders, exposed legs, exposed ears (!), the accentuation of loops and curves. And only then did men respond—lured inside the flower, helpless, like bees to a drop of nectar. Lured, yes—lured. That’s what I’ll tell Dr Bosch. I was lured, Doctor.

The train slowed, stopped. People got off. People got on. The doors beeped. Moving again, estate, estate, estate. Two more stops. The train slowed again. The girl looked up. In seconds, she’d be gone. And he’d still be here. Should he get off, follow her? The brakes buzzed and squealed. He clenched his fists. No. He had his appointment. The train pulled away. She had vanished—a trail of dark hair across the window, toward the distant sun. The other two women were still talking.

Frederick focused on his reasoning, barely registering the carriage anymore. In normalised circumstances—the human pack at rest—the female picked the male: the more ‘attractive’ one (whatever that meant—sometimes: muscular, tall, threatening to rivals, protective of her, in short, a human shield; sometimes it meant clever, charming, the ones who could talk their way in). In non-normalised circumstances, he thought, staring at the tip of his shoe, the rules changed. In that case, the female found herself alone—at the mercy of any prowling or predatory male she encountered. Physical attractiveness changed polarity—became a liability, a danger. An unattractive woman, by contrast, could pass unmolested. But in civilised society, that is under normal conditions, beauty still paid divid—

Were these two women on the bench talking about him now? Did they spot him, wearing his mask, clutching his pole? Could they hear?... The ears... No—

He almost missed his stop, barely made it through the closing doors. Frederick stood on the platform. No more vanilla. The hot air smelled of brake dust and dead electricity. He checked his watch. 5:18, and adjusted his mask.