Third Draft ( major project)

 

It was day seven.  She had her light on the whole night. In her pajamas, she wandered across an empty room.

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 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, she 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 one 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.

The idea of her not being across the street started to trouble me. I could not simply bear the distance in between us. I see that window even if my eyes look somewhere else; it seems to always be in my mind, a mental picture of some sort framed as a French painting. She always there, and she smiles and waves. And when I'm here, leaning towards a window across that filthy street filled with all sort of trash, from yesterday's newspaper to a plastic bag drifting in the air, Christmas décor if Santa was a grinch. Cars screaming at each other, screaming at pedestrians who more often than not seemed to be lost within, no purpose, no particular destination. It is said that if you walk long enough, eventually you are going to reach your destination. Mine was in front of me, beyond this disturbing world, in a worm window, she sat across the street, and that window means a world to me.

- Let me in; I screamed. - Let me in; so hopelessly I begged, but She did not seem to care at all.

Arranging her books on a study table without a single care in the world. I can imagine that was her safe space; she would sit here for hours, often drawing or painting. 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 might stay put as I had 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 sparked up a cigarette, leaning against the balcony door from where the view to the promised land was the best.

There she was, 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. I'm with cigarette In my hand, she with electric green watering can. She smiled, and enormous relief filled my body that was yet to stop shaking. She 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? As if she was not across the street but just a reach away, she nodded.

I ran across the street, not looking left nor right; nothing else seemed to exist besides that narrow purple 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 a 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; usually, you can hear people coming to the door, but no one was coming now; not a single creak or squeak was coming my way. I turned the corner to take a look if I could see her in a window, but lights were off, unusually early; I thought as I have never seen them off, ever. I came back to the door, and I rang the doorbell three more times. No one ever came.