The Window (FICTION)

I was staring at the window as he told me the news. I think my eyes were focused on something – they must have been – but now I cannot remember exactly. It was raining outside and I could hear each heavy drop as it banged against the window. A fury began to grow inside me and I couldn’t stand to look at him; not even in his direction. He tore my world apart, but seemed to have no knowledge of it. He spoke calmly, as if referring to the weather or a new pair of jeans. Immediately, I felt the gap widen even further between us. Who was this stranger?

I wondered how it all happened so quickly. Just minutes before, my life had seemed so normal. It wasn’t a fantastic life, just a mediocre one. But it was one I could face. And now my world would never be the same again. His words had stung me like a cold bitter day and my skin began to grow goose bumps. The window, as if affected by my thoughts, began to fog up and I could no longer see the bakery on the corner.

The first time I met him, I wasn’t terribly impressed. He smiled shyly when he introduced himself and he seemed very nervous. There was an awkward pause, and then he made a joke. I found him silly and perhaps a bit pathetic. He bought me a cappuccino and we sat close together on a couch. We hardly made eye contact. We talked about our favorite books and wine. I prefer white – and he, red.

I’m not sure why I gave him my number. Perhaps it was his striped sweater. It was incredibly soft and warm, and it made me think of home. A home as it should be, that is, and not the one I had. Or maybe it was his eyes. They seemed to always be searching for something. I thought it would be interesting to see them when he found what he was looking for. He didn’t call me for three weeks. I hardly thought about him in that time. But I agreed to meet him for dinner the next day.

Our relationship evolved as relationships always do. There was nothing particularly interesting or different about it. We began dating, seeing each other once or twice a week. Gradually, it turned into almost every night, until he moved in with me. I wasn’t necessarily excited about it, as women often are. It just seemed a practical step, as we were spending so much time together. He turned into a habit for me, like smoking or brushing your teeth. It’s not always pleasant, but you get so used to doing it, that after a while you can’t go without. I grew attached despite myself.

The window was completely opaque now and the world outside was as impossible to predict as my future. He continued to talk, sporadically, but I was no longer listening. I just concentrated on the thick white glass standing still before me. I wondered how much strength would be required to break that glass. Would it not be easier to just break myself?