I’m in love with the girl out the window. Everyday she walks by. She doesn’t know I’m watching. There’s nothing about her that would draw the eye – today, blue denim jeans, a sleeveless top, wedge sandals… No jewelry adorns her, no paint on her nails. She’s as plain as can be. Plain and beautiful. Her legs move just right. Her hips sway to the beat of an unheard tune. If she could just see me; if I could just bring myself to walk outside and talk to her.
Three times. Three times she walks by my window every day. This is the third as the office winds down and covert workhorses pack up to go home and be human again. Me? I’m not done until she gets to her car. Those legs swing into the drivers seat with such ease. She likes her music loud. Rock and roll. That’s always the end-of-day choice. She doesn’t say much from what I can tell. She always walks alone. She always goes home alone.
Maybe one day I’ll go home with her.
This morning she seems more confident than usual, her back straight, head high, a small smile playing on her lips. Maybe she got a promotion. She crosses the parking lot, tiptoes judiciously across the grass in her brown heels, and begins her journey down the sidewalk. I wonder where she will go. The desperation that urges me to follow her is disconcerting. I turn back to my computer. Reports. Financial reports. I type. I fill in. I organize, I sort. I note the trends. I format the spreadsheet, highlighting areas of interest. I stop and think.
I look out the window.
She’s coming back now. She looks sad. Her shoulders sag like a homeless puppy and her mysterious grin has vaporized. I want to know what happened. I want to run out the door, sweep her into my arms, cover her with hugs and kisses from head to toe. And then walk back in the direction she came to assert my God-given testosterone-enflamed masculinity on whoever took away that smile.
She doesn’t know. Doesn’t know how much she floors me. I don’t understand it myself, really. All I know is that I look forward to three things at work, and three things alone.
Spreadsheets and analytics are not on the list.
I step into a meeting. I’m lost in negotiations, arguments, and orders for a while. I don’t know how long. I don’t really give a damn. I just want to get back to my window.
I missed her once. I got stuck in a meeting and she made it all the way to – well, wherever she goes – and back to her small office next door before I could get back to my perch. I wanted to cry. Pathetic. She’s like a tractor beam. No, she’s like bread. No, more: like blood. Yes, blood, that’s it. I can feel her in my veins, pulsating through my heart and ripping it to pieces, slowly, bit by bit. I fear her. What if she did look at me; what if she talked to me? It would feel like jumping out of an airplane and being crushed by an enormous boulder at the same time. No. No, I don’t want her to see me. I do. But I don’t. I just want to watch her. Study her. Memorize her movements.
I steal back to my office for lunch and await my second treat for the day. My sandwich tastes cold and flavorless compared to the fiery movement of my elusive mistress. Green eyes. Brown hair, down to her shoulders. A different purse every day. My wife used to have a different purse every day. That always annoyed me. But not with her. Nothing bothers me with her.
She walks back into my purview like an anvil. The exact same walk with the exact same swagger and the exact same sheepish grin on her face; but it’s like my eyes are awakening from decades of blindness. She always goes the same direction: across the parking lot, toe by toe across the rocky median – always seeming to be in the edge of falling but so graceful in tandem – and onto the sidewalk. The same routine upon her return, but more exquisite in reverse. My day is complete with her.
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