I love windows. Each and everyone is a piece of art showcasing morals and histories in intricate stained glass or... the likes of sticky handprints. When the glass itself isn't a work of art, the window itself becomes the frame that displays snapshots of living dramas comprised of parts forever changing day to day as the Earth spins round.
Granted, monotony is always a factor. The living are subjected to chaos and from it they construct behavioral patterns so they can get by a little easier. But patience is key. It doesn't take much for bridge to come tumbling down and it is the little details that cue you in to a larger story; a much bigger masterpiece cut off by the edges of the window's frame.
For example, something extraordinary happened last week. I was peering through a first story window, as I do most nights. The window itself doesn't deserve mention beyond the recognition of its existence. The house? A standard middl- class cookie-cutter home situated in a neighborhood full of liars and fools. The kind that live like their rich because they surround themselves with denial and also never bother to close those blinds that they spent so much on.
Anyway, I am staring into this kitchen window. On the other side of the glass, poor Ms. Carrolls lay defeated on the floor. At first I thought she died of heart break, as is traditional of tragic romances. This would have been strangely convenient for me depending on how fresh the body was (rigor mortis is not a popular seasoning), but upon closer inspection it became clear that she was still alive. Her chest rose and fell in a half-hearted attempt to keep air flowing in and out of her lungs. The rhythm of it occasionally interrupted by spasms signature of a grief stricken body.
Hindsight is a beautiful thing. Suddenly, the events of the past few months came together as a glorious story.In my experience, a desk drawer and a kitchen are similar in only one way: both are very telling of the secret lives of their owners. Superficially, nothing in Ms. Carrolls' life had changed since she moved in, minus some alterations to her work schedule. She went to the office, was perfectly amiable to everyone she spoke to, and then she went home. But the things that went on behind this window tell a different story.
When Ms. Carrolls moved in in June, the kitchen was bland and hardly ever used. The stove top gathered dust while week old leftovers went bad in the fridge. Come August and the place started to get more colorful. Plates made of ceramics and cutlery with cute designs on them began replacing their more backward, disposable cousins and the refrigerator became full of actual groceries. Things were cleaned and scrubbed like never before and various decorative pieces were hung about the place in preparation for the dinner guest that never left, one Ms. Norton.
With her in the picture, Ms. Carrolls worked less overtime and cooked more in what was once a ghost-town of a kitchen. By October, the two women broke bread almost every night, filling the house with laughter and the occasional mess that was cleaned up soon after amidst giggles.
The decline began in the following spring. The two were running errands, as was I. I didn't mean to run into them. In fact, I was getting bored with their happiness. I hadn't visited their window in some time because something across town involving a widow and an envelope full of incriminating photographs demanded my more immediate attention. I just happened to lock eyes with Ms. Norton. We both glanced up at the same time and stared for a while. At first, I thought nothing of it. This sort of thing happens all the time. Strangers lock eyes for a second, then go one with their lives. But I saw emotion cross her face. Confusion, recognition, and fear scurried by, taking the color of her face as they went. She broke eye contact first and left as if fleeing something.
This renewed my interest. Something in her recognized me and I wanted to play with that. I visited their window at night and stalked Ms. Norton around town when I had the time. They never caught me lurking outside, but Ms. Norton saw enough of me around town to set... something off. The stress started to go to her head. She hardly slept and spent most nights sitting in the kitchen alone. Once or twice the two tried to talk about it over a meal, but both left the conversation full of doubt in the other.
Ms. Norton, seemingly alienated by Ms. Carroll's disbelief in the validity of her troubles and bored by her sleepless nights, began roaming the streets with a quick step and no lights on upstairs. All the while, Ms. Carrolls would take her seat at the kitchen table and keep a nervous vigil, gnawing on her thumb in deep thought as stray dishes littered the counter.
A few weeks spent like this tore the two apart. Norton's late nights nowhere in particular and her refusal to pick up the phone during those hours led Carrolls to think her unfaithful. Tempers flared, plates were thrown, and eventually Ms. Norton disappeared into the night and never came back. Unbeknownst to Ms. Carrols, she sought me out and asked politely. I admired her manners so I was quick with the dirty work and prepared her myself. The cops were never called. There was no investigation. There was only Ms. Carrolls and a deep sadness because she chased her only love away.
Time passed and the plate still lay on the floor in pieces. Dirty dishes pilled up and gathered flied. The food in the fridge went to rot. For 14 days, that house was dark and she didn't set a foot in that kitchen. Then on the 15th day I found her on the floor wrapped in grief and very, very drunk. She didn't stir when I entered the house and stood over her, pondering for a few moments. I wasn't sure what to do with her. Drunkeness is a piss poor marinade. So I took out my box of matches and set the house on fire.
