window
From where I stand, I can see the curve of your neck as you’re hunched over something at your kitchen table, your brows furrowed, concentrating deeply on the task at hand. I am familiar with the stray strands of hair curling at the bottom of your hairline, and I want to reach out and touch them. I watch you from afar for a few minutes, trying to decide.
Then suddenly she appears behind you, you look up and smile briefly. She walks over to you and rests her hand on your shoulder, her lips forming a question. You answer, still looking down, your hands gesticulating in the air and at the end of the sentence you laugh and look back up at her. She smiles, I imagine this is what mundane love looks like.
She turns away from you and picks something up from the floor, starts placing items into the wall. I realize she’s putting away the groceries she has been out buying. I didn’t even notice her driving by, but I’ve tried imagining what she would look like many times and I’m not even remotely close. I should leave, but my feet are heavy and stick to the ground, I don’t know why I want to stay.
When she’s finished, she starts pulling pots and pans out from cabinets and she disappears and reappears in the window sill, words dancing between you and laughter bouncing off the walls. I wanted to unmute and turn the volume up, curious about your conversational topics on this ordinary Wednesday afternoon. Finally she brings you a plate and you put away whatever you’re doing. As the daylight starts fading, I watch you have dinner together in a small lit up square.
Afterwards you stand up and clear the table, disappearing from view. She follows you, and I’m left staring at the empty window. My arm has tiny goosebumps, I hadn’t noticed that it got chilly.
I try to imagine you behind the walls of your house. She lights candles on the shelves, and a record spins on the LP-player, music from an old album you both like filling the room. You sit in the corner of your couch with a blanket over your feet reading a book and she comes over to sit next to you. Her fingers habitually tracing your hand while she reads through her newsfeed. Eventually she lifts your arm and puts her head in your lap. Your fingers play with her hair as you ask if she wants to hear the next chapter. She nods sleepily, and you read about the man with tattoos in his palms, he doesn’t speak but the woman still falls in love with him based entirely on “yes” on his left hand, and “no” on his right.
You yawn and close the book, gently nudging her shoulder to wake her up. She folds your blanket while you put the book back in its place, and then you take her hand and lead her to the bedroom. The light flicks off in my little square and I lean against the tree closing my eyes.
