The many suites across the hall and their scattered balconies all hover above the Wylland Estates’ main entrance which, itself, resides just a few steps above the pavement of the street with the big, looming trees. On the second floor, just left of the entrance, at a window darkened by the reflection of early dawn, sits a man at his desk and in front of a typewriter given to him over five decades ago as a graduation gift from his grandfather. As regular mornings go, today started off the same as most. An early rise, a hot shower and a pot of coffee patiently awaited his return from the stroll-about with the dog. Soon after, his hand hanging onto both his cane and squished pack of cigarettes, he led himself into the office and has now sat for over an hour with the pristine sheet of paper still rolled up in the platen, eagerly awaiting the morning’s dance to begin.
He has smoked plenty already, almost triple the amount of this time yesterday, but he has not typed a single letter. In fact, today, he’s all but abandoned the project in its entirety. Whatever wonderful thoughts and insights were to be recorded this particular overcast morning had all but vanished from mind the moment he sat down at the window. The paper remains undisturbed, bored and restless.
He can’t think, can’t concentrate, can’t form a single sentence for all he can anticipate, all he can consume himself with is the anticipation of her.
Finishing his cigarette, he puts it out, reaches for another and lights it with a match he got from the restaurant the wife insists on frequenting every Wednesday night. A nice place, warm and cozy, not a far walk. They go not for the food, but for the live pianist who reminds her not just of youth, but also of the smoky lounge in Montreal they met at. Love upon first pint. She was his waitress and her smile alone enticed a sudden desire to sail the Mediterranean, an adventure that has unfortunately remained only in his heart. The west coast beckoned instead and slowly her smile hardened with each sleeve he downed. These days, the wife is almost dead to him and the girl who lives somewhere within the concrete, wood and glass of the building across his own, has become the woman he has thought of impulsively since he first watched her move in two summers prior to the most recent.
Like the drug he was very fond of in those days, she entices his senses each morning he watches her, most mornings from his window, some mornings from the sidewalk as the mutt sniffs at the bushes. On a few occasions she had walked right past him, her shoulder bag had brushed against his arm, a smile or nod of ‘good morning’ from her eyes reached his…. She has, unwittingly, become his silent secret; a muse based solely on possession of youth and legs that demand attention in the busiest of markets. Her, a woman he has never spoken a single word to—oh no, he dare never speak to her—has taken shape in his mind of the woman he married and sailed around southern Europe with.
This particular mid-autumn morning her car remains parked directly below his window.
He strums his fingers on his desk repetitively. He waits as guys on bicycles zoom by, juggling their coffees and back-packs, waits as cats chase the squirrels who taunt them, waits and watches the big looming trees drip sticky tears onto the half-dozen windshields below.
He taps at the space bar and springs the typewriter to life, taps repeatedly until it reaches the end of the page with an excitable ding. He hits return and does it again. The story does not matter this morning. What matters is that he hasn’t seen her in over a week, and this morning he’ll be closer to her than in months.
Once in awhile she makes herself visible coming home in the evening from work. By then it is dark and harder to see. Occasionally a man escorts her…that guy, yes, him…he’s been coming around a lot lately. This irritates him. He hears a quiet shuffle from the hallway. She’s finally woken up, stirred—the lady stirs and heads into the washroom where she no doubt will pluck a few hairs from the mole that’s invaded the right side of her face. She mutters a sound, directed at him, most likely wondering what the weather’s like, and he responds by hitting a few random letters, pulling the paper out, crumpling it, tossing it, rolling in another sheet and typing the phrase ‘patience is as patience does I am ready ready ready!’ He makes noise. She will leave him alone if he makes noise, and soon enough she will dress and head out, into the daylight, up the street, to play cards with all the other dismissed wives in the park.
He stops his strumming. She’s there! At her front entrance, struggling with an umbrella that is much bigger than needed. She steps forward, tugs her jacket closed, and allows the door to slam shut behind her. She steps towards the road, sliding her hand through her damp hair like she does each time, adjusting the strap of her bag directly after—as she does each time. He whispers out loud her steps until she reaches the sidewalk. One. Two. Three. Four. He can hear the heels echo up to his window. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. He never misses a beat, never steps out of line, never slows down or speeds up until she steps out into the open. He sits straight up, uses his sleeve to wipe his breath off the window.
She is now exposed to the world, and so early in the morning, so pretty and so vulnerable in her skirt, the same one he’s grown very fond of, the one that bounces off each step like a flamenco dancer in mid-move. Her unbuttoned autumn coat reaches down to her knees. Exposed. He likes to think of her that way. Exposed. This is usually where she stops to light her cigarette—usually—but not today. He exhales and crushes out his own, half way before its end. Nine. Ten. Eleven. Twelve. He sees she’s scanning her pockets, furiously, for a lighter, and he is tempted to toss his box of matches out at her, tempted to race down with his unreliable leg and be her saviour, if only for this moment.
She waits for a truck to pass before crossing to her car and he sees her face clearly now; so smooth, untouched by stress or worry of yesterday’s mistakes or what tomorrow may visualize. She’s found her lighter and pulls it out of her over-sized pocket—or not, it’s not a lighter, but her car keys. Maybe she’s quit smoking? That would be the smart thing to do. Her skin needs to remain delicate, desirable, or his fascination—his memoirs, will have been tarnished. She is directly under his window now, unlocking the driver’s side door, opening it, completely unaware he is watching, oblivious of the flash as he snaps yet another picture to add to his collection.
Flipping the camera for inspection he is immediately mesmerized. She had tilted her head up, momentarily, as if looking up directly at him, as if acknowledging his infatuation with another nod. He whispers to the picture, ‘What could it mean?’ Perhaps, she admires the attention? Perhaps, he types away, she is privately asking for more. Could it be she is granting me permission? The car’s engine slaps him back to reality. He looks out just as she pulls away.
And just like that, she is gone. Off with the rest of her day.
Ldm
