The Woman in the Window

Precipitating shadows in a box closed shut

Photo by Николай Демин on Unsplash.

One yellow light observes the lot like warm butter while her figure moves in the window. My shadow friend. I stand outside, saturated by cold, late season snow on the horizon. I know her at a distance. Outside her vernacular. Outside her existence.

Sometimes I feel dangerous. To myself. But I don’t want to hurt anyone. Me watching with weepy bird eyes. I want to feel close. I imagine what she does in her world far away from my world down here. She might be in that building, fourth floor, second door from right, but we’re separated by more than stairs and walls. We’re separated by ideas. She knows nothing of that.

I imagine her bending to collect an item off the floor—a toy perhaps—next to a lamp just outside my view. I see the hedge of its shade. She goes to it and makes an adjustment. She rearranges a book or vase just to rearrange it. Sometimes she dusts. I don’t imagine she has much of a life in there. To be so endlessly rearranging. I wonder at it all. Maybe she rearranges items because she cannot rearrange herself.

It’s okay. I’m out here. In the dark cold where she cannot see. In nightmare blankets of existential indeterminacy. I know I don't exist. Thoughts like mine disintegrate before they can do harm or good or reach anyone. She’s safe and I’m safe and there’s nothing to know except that the yellow glow swallows her each night. Keeps her like a crow’s watch.

I never see a man with her. Doesn’t mean there isn’t a man. Just that I’ve never seen him. If I watched closely I might accidentally see her during the day. Coming or going. Then all this would be ruined. Then we would be in the same world, and that’s not how this is supposed to be. This here. Is just right.

I don’t want her close. Don’t want to know too much. Better to have unanswered questions. Once they’re answered they’re no longer questions, so I make some assumptions to nicely fill the spaces. I bet the temperature is a bit on the warm side. Seventy-two. I pause. No, I think, she wears long-sleeves. Seventy or seventy-one.

Does she look out her window and think of people outside? Does she wonder about people like me? I think not. I don’t think we cross her mind down here. This world doesn’t become real until her feet touch down. At night she’s in her safe nest. Dusting. Rearranging. People like me don’t become real until. Well. Maybe we are never real to a woman like her. Until we make ourselves collide with her in some way. A tiny collision in this very tiny universe.

Right now it isn’t real. It’s ideal. I like that. A collision would make it real but for now it’s just imagination. It’s good. It’s friendly. Neighborly even. Lot of strange people skulking these cold nights. Slantwise people with angular ideas. So I keep watch over her. To make sure she’s safe. Watching isn’t the worst thing.

She goes about rearranging her trivial life with no idea, scuttling back and forth in the window. I imagine her mind filled by black ink. Thoughtless ideas. Thoughtless words. Sometimes I glimpse her form filled with circular curves. Beautiful like a geometry lesson. It’s my job to keep her safe. Away from harm. It’s my job to make sure she does not become real.

The problem is the cold. I can’t stand here long in the cold. Not without frostbite. But I have a job and it’s not right to abandon post when her safety is in jeopardy. And she’s so involved with her work. Sometimes it’s embroidery. Sometimes reading. She isn’t watching for lurkers. She’s fascinated by ideas on pages in books that reflect the world she lives in. It’s what she relates to. So I have to be alert to keep her safe. Sometimes my world overflows into her kind of world. Accidents you know.

She goes by the window. Such a beautiful shape. Dark and color insignificant. She tampers with a drawer in the end table. Sits on the end of her sofa. Probably reading. I can’t see very well through the blinds so I decide. She’s sipping tea. Eucalyptus with a drop of honey. She’s wakeful. Energetic. But also relaxed. Her movements are streaks of paint. Her breathing is wind chimes. Even her stillness is electric.

I stuff my hands in my pockets and wonder about her morning routine. Snow is coming and she will read another hour or so. I’ll keep watch. But when she goes to bed I go to bed. I have to. Otherwise we might end up too close. And this is as close as I can get.

My imagination and reality are a Venn diagram. One slowly sliding over the other. She needs me to keep her safe. I have a job. Two different worlds. Never touching. I keep my world from hers. I keep it from becoming real.

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Roman Newell is hard at work on his debut novel — 20XX — a work in magical realism, which explores the complexities and conflicts in modern day societies amid confusing social norms, rapidly evolving technology, and impact traumas. Follow Roman’s Substack to be added to the 20XX contact list.