The Window
An Every(hu)man Story
It’s 7:00 pm. The office is quiet from having been deserted hours before, but here I still sit. I’m on the 18th floor in an office with an imposing window through which I can usually see the mountains. I should feel lucky in this high tower, people tell me. But I’m restless. I’m always searching, like the droplets of rain collecting on the glass just beyond my nose as I lurch to avoid my screen — one minute forging their own path, the next surreptitiously devoured into a pool among the rest.
It’s dark today. Ominous. An almost Alfred Hitchcockian cloud cover dots out the sky. There are no enchanting, twinkling stars; there is only impetuous Northern night, turning my thoughts inward. I’ve been so many different characters in this life. I suppose I thought trying on every suit in the store was the only way to find the one that fits: sweet, empathic child; gothic teenager; shy party girl; impertinent yuppy; ‘lost imposter’ Ivy league student; faux German with a chic European drug problem; and, whatever it is I am now. A drop in your average puddle, I guess. And as if my endless contemplation about the present weren’t enough, this invasive wax layer of distant memory casts a fog thicker than the one waiting for me when I finally leave for home.
I suppose it’s odd how rarely I glance out the window I sit next to so often. Perhaps I’m scared of where my daydreams might lead, or perhaps I’ve realized that no amount of prying will change the pattern of houses or carefully curated streets. The cars roll around the same corners each day. The stop lights a predictable sequence seemingly orchestrating the whole scene, never floundering in their certainty.
The only thing that changes now is the weather.
