Two men have come to the door. They have come to the front door of the house, where we almost never go, up the drive that no one ever uses. The gardens are kept over there, to be sure, but not by us. The northern door is surrounded by ordered plants and is approached on swept stone, clinical and clean. We prefer the soft mess of the kitchen and the garden and everything beyond it.

They came from the North. They came on the drive that Juliet says no one but the salesmen use, or the real estate agents who come to beg Marco for the property. The drive is kept clean, too. Marco tells his friends to approach from the south, and often ignores the north door. To think about it, it seems odd now that I have never seen anyone tend to the paving or the plants.

They came in a large black car. We can see it through the thin windows of the upstairs closets, leaning still against the wall in the shadow of some old sport coats. Juliet sits beside me with her head on my chest to see. The car is black, a deep black, and glossy as if wet in all this dry valley. The car is smooth and curved. I frown at it; it is an impractical vehicle. It is low to the ground and has no room for packages or more people than two. Juliet mumbles her own thoughts. Somehow the car is clean, clean like the plants and the drive, far too clean of the dust and the rain and the world. It is clean enough to let the eye slip past it, searching for rougher purchase.

They are wearing light suits of warm tones over crisp white shirts, and the cloth moves effortlessly with them as they stride towards the house after locking the car (I have never seen anyone lock the car, here). They wear leather shoes that look very comfortable. Their arms swing freely, and they walk with purpose. They are both tall men, and strong, and wear their hair short and slightly slicked against the day. They somehow make sunglasses seem sinister.

We hold each other still in the quiet heat of the closet, trying to make sense of the muted stumblings of the conversation taking place below us. The heat makes the air thick. I imagine that we listen to them as if they were underwater below us, or perhaps it is us that is at depth. We do not move. From the tenor and pace, we can be somewhat sure that Marco dislikes them. We recognize his farewell, and watch as the men move away again, back over the gravel to the car, which spins away and spills down the hill and a furious rate. I smile for a moment, knowing that whatever else is true of them, they enjoy this part of their job, even though it means they may want to come back this way again for the most trivial of reasons to test these hills with that beast of theirs.

We are still. I imagine telling Juliet that we should go down stairs, behave as we do, meet later to compare notes. I imagine meeting her in the canopy of the willow by the stream, exchanging secrets. I feel her shiver a little. We do none of these things. The air is a muffler cast over everything, smoothing the edges of the noise from Marco knocking around downstairs.