Final draft

 It was day seven. 

 She'd had lights on the whole night, wandering around an empty room in her pajamas. 

"Why haven't you slept?" I asked, but she did not answer.

Framed in white gold, she stood still, just a reach away across the murky street. I swore to myself that I could smell her hair, coconut oil with a gentle hint of biscuit.

Knock on a door.

Two young men were in front of me, cheeks red as meatballs.

"We're here to fix the boiler," they declared in duet; I pointed at the bathroom, and so they went. As I came back to the window, the girl was gone. 

I shivered.

Moments later, both technicians were in my living room,

"We have to order a new part." guy number one started. "It will take three to four days to come." the second man ended. As his eyes passed through my kitchen, a grim smile appeared on his face - I guess you will have to use a kettle for a little while, he added.

She was still gone.

"Okay, thank you." I nodded.

Doors shut close behind them.

The idea of her not being across the street started to trouble me. I could not simply bear the distance in between us. I'd see that window even if my eyes look somewhere else, a mental picture of some sort in which, framed as a French painting, she always stands smiling and waving at me.

                                  

  Occasionally a loner passes by, without a purpose, without a particular goal; I can only hope for him to never stop walking, as only then he will reach the destination. Mine was across the street, scattered by cars screaming at one another, pedestrians shouting things that are not so distinct from the honks. In a window blazing as it was the only candle across this dim graveyard, she sat brushing her hair. With every stroke, she'd release a tiny amount of aroma, coconut, and biscuits that would linger in her room until the first breeze carries it through the poorly closed window, out into the soaring world, making the whole street go quiet for a moment. I couldn't get her out of my head, and my mouth was starting to water as if there was a bowl of madeleines in front of me, every single one being her.

"Let me in," I screamed. "Let me in," so hopelessly I begged, but she did not listen.     

Arranging her books on a study table without a single care in the world.  She would sit there for hours, often drawing or gazing through the window at the open sky. Sometimes she would read a book and be all focused when out of nowhere, she would jump across the room as if she forgot something important. Moments later, I would see her dance and spin around as a tiny ballerina in a musical. She would goof around like a child after a critical dose of sugar.  And with the same rocket fuel energy that she rose, she would fall back into the chair and carry on reading like nothing happened, like it was some sort of commercial In her life, and now it's finished, and the movie can continue. I wished her to look up, but she didn't; she carried on arranging her books.

Steam trumpet filled my living room with the hissing of a signaling train. I heard that repetitive noise works as meditation, relaxes the mind. Total bullshit. It begins to drive me insane, I wish to chuck it at the wall, to see it shatter into a thousand pieces but for now, it stays put as I have to wash the three-day sweat off my skin. It took me three kettles to accumulate enough water so I could take at least a half-decent shower, scooping water from a bucket, pouring it over my head and shoulders with a teacup. As the kettle was about to scream for the third time, I leaned against the balcony door from where the view to the promised land was the best and sparked a cigarette.

She was back, next to a window watering bouquet of red chrysanthemums, so innocent, so careful and precise with her movements. Her head turned slightly, and suddenly we were looking at one another. Me with cigarette In my hand; her with a petit watering can. She smiled, and enormous relief filled my body that was yet to stop shaking. She had accepted me, I thought. I raised my hand and waved with a quick left to right motion; she responded with the same kind of awkwardness met across lonely and disturbed. A wide smile appeared on her face, and she gave me a look that could make the toughest knees tremble. She waved again, but this time towards herself. -Me? I pointed at myself to confirm; she nodded.

I ran across the street, not looking left nor right; nothing else seemed to exist besides that narrow yellow door in front of me, separating this cold world and her loving arms. What if she laughs, I wandered. What if she thinks I'm crazy? What if she takes me in. There was no turning around. Could she possibly see feelings I carry for her in my heart, could she see them bursting through my eyes, could she see the love I have for her, and could she understand and let me in so I would never be alone again?

I reached for the doorbell, and my heart pounded along, one time, two, three. I took a step back, following with a deep breath to calm myself down. I tried to listen as hard as I could, but no one was coming; not a single creak or squeak was coming my way. I turned the corner to take a look at the window, the lights were on, and I could see her silhouette drifting through the room. 'Hey!" I shouted, hoping she would hear me, but all I got in response was a cold breeze stinging my body like a thousand needles.  Wondering how to get her attention, I thought of all the movie scenes where a rock tossed at a window becomes the very beginning of a happy ending; my eyes came across a rock shaped like a cherry pit, ''That will do." I thought, but once I turned around, the light was off, and suddenly I wasn't in the street anymore; I was in the graveyard, and there was no candlelight to show me the way out, no aroma of coconut oil with a gentle touch of biscuit to guide me through the darkness just numbing needles one after another piercing through my skin. I came back to the door and knocked three more times and shivered.

No one ever came.