Looking out of the window

I can’t stop staring at this man who stares out of the window.

There is only a small, small part of me that wants to see what he sees.

Other than that I am transfixed by the fact that he may dream of escape as much as me. That outside is always infinitely more interesting than the reams of super-fast connection and flesh we can access on our screens.

I heard a rumour he looks at the beauty school who sit on benches just outside but I have seen him looking at cranes carrying insane things to build a new transport line. I don’t want to put him down like that. Look at what you want whilst everyone else closes the blinds.

There is another. He doesn’t look out the window, he pulls the blinds to on sunny days and on dark days I don’t care enough to wonder if they are shut. But I have spied him, peeping through the blinds, a gap as big as the width of my little finger, and he peeps and peeps but will never look when the blinds are open, will never steal a gaze when the view is behind the eyes of who he is talking to.

Can you fall in love just because someone looks out of the window? Seems as good a reason to as any. Better for him to look out the window than to stare at a little handheld screen, across small seas and after climbing mini cut out mountains, hurtling through thousands of feet in the air in a metal compartment, I’d rather the one who stares over the one who keeps busy, the one who stares, emptying his mind rather than the one who feels the need to constantly distract themselves from the beauty that may be.

I lied about not wondering if the blinds are shut on dark days.

Dark days are the most beautiful, the fog hitting the copper green quad of towers over the meat packing district, the way the clouds hang in the air and suddenly dissipate at a second of sun.

I just like to look at him look. It is so beautiful.

One clap, two clap, three clap, forty?

By clapping more or less, you can signal to us which stories really stand out.