I see a woman. She lives in the building across from my street, and I have a clear view of her room from my apartment. I did not intend to make it a part of my daily routine, but I do set aside some time now to sit by my window and see her go about her day. This has been a recent development, which unsurprisingly became a habit rather quickly. She is tall, has long black curly hair and broad shoulders. If I had to, that is how I would describe her. I can tell from afar all the things she isn’t—petite, loud, fragile, thin or attractive. I couldn’t describe her features because I haven’t had the chance to see her up close and personal, but I am certain that she doesn’t stand out from the crowd in any peculiar or special way. She wears a nose ring though, following which I also assumed that she must be inked.
Her schedule really confuses me. I have spotted her asleep at two in the afternoon on weekdays and off to some place in the morning on weekends. I know she is nocturnal because her’s is the only other window that I’ve seen lit even at odd hours in the night. Maybe she reads, maybe she writes, I don’t know but I like to believe that it’s got something to do with the arts.
She definitely enjoys music and I’d say has good, respectable taste. It’s come across as nuisance at times, but I realized soon enough that it was mostly on days when I was the one who was in a bad, ugly mood. I usually find myself drawn to the balcony then, so that I can get a better listen at what she’s playing that night. It is silly, but it lights me up when I pick up on a rhythm I know I would save up in my playlist. That is the only reason I haven’t complained about her yet. I wonder if anyone else has ever paid attention to the music she plays on full volume—I think she could make a soul or two cry.
I figure she is a student given her erratic timetable. I have seen her stationed stiff on her bed surrounded with what only could be notes and lecture writings and endless mugs of coffee, quite often around days when I know my neighbor's son has exams scheduled at his university too. He complains about his son each time I bump into him in the elevator; that’s how I know. Maybe they go to the same university? I have noticed her while away precious, productive hours of the day doing absolutely nothing so I can’t really say how good of a student she is. She could be a prodigy, but I highly doubt that. It could be adult ADD; that’s more likely these days anyway. I have seen her spend a good amount of time on her cell phone on nights when I have stationed myself near my bedroom window to keep an eye on her. Scrolling aimlessly doesn't demand attention, right?
I don’t know why but I feel almost protective towards her now. This one time, out of nowhere, she got naked without drawing the curtains in her room and I happened to be looking. It was the most wonderful and dreadful moment of my life. Her full, light breasts just hung there from her chest seeming completely nonchalant, and the faint wrinkles on her butt didn’t care one bit that they were creasing that lustrous skin. Her underarm hair had only slightly started to grow back, and I realized after a minute that her bare body didn’t embarrass or intrigue her. She didn’t hastily change into another set of clothes. She just stood there for a good whole minute simply admiring her curves and flab, and only once she was satisfied did she pull on a pair of black jeans and a non-descript blouse from her cupboard and got dressed to step out of the house. I was taken aback at her lack of respect for privacy and shame. What if someone else had been looking! I could not tolerate that thought, let alone imagine it. I was so mad at her that day, I decided to stay away for some time. I knew she didn’t know I was disappointed in her, but I had to make a show of it either way.
She was a neat-freak, I had at least that figured out for sure. Her laundry days weren’t pre-planned, but she was somewhat regular with it. She’d broom her room more often than mop it, but then again, it was a small room so that was acceptable. She however wasn’t particular about making her bed each morning. I wondered if she’d never gotten a chance to develop that rule early on in her life and felt bad for her for not having anyone around to discipline her in her younger days. Maybe she grew up with only one parent, or maybe too many siblings in the house—I couldn’t figure that bit out. There were no photographs either, anywhere in her home. The living room walls were bare, and the kitchen was too cramped for her to decorate it in any way. There was nothing that I could see in her bedroom either that could indicate who she was, where she’d come from, what family she belonged to, or who she loved. I decided to conclude that she had no family either because she had lost them all in a heart breaking tragedy or because she had left home on her own accord and distanced herself from her loved ones. I questioned who paid for her education and bore her living expense, but it could be a scholarship or a distant uncle or aunt helping her out. She seemed to better fit with distant relatives than close family members anyway.
If she wasn’t in her room, I’d trace her to the kitchen. She loved to cook. I’d see her carry heavy grocery bags on each of her trips from the supermarket, a bottle of white wine always popping out of a corner. I prefer whiskey to wine on most days, but I keep a few bottles of Chardonnay in my home bar now in case of a surprise visit. I am glad that my office offers flexible hours and lets me work from home. I wouldn’t have been able to catch her on most days if not for my boss’s kindness and generosity. He’d even be willing to switch to con call meetings if I suggested them. I found my way to her one busy afternoon because of a con call, and the flu. I was in no shape to get out of bed and travel an hour to meet my boss at his city office. It was him who arranged for a con call meeting instead and made sure I was comfortably tucked away in bed as we discussed money and law for three hours straight. Praise the lord for that blue and gloomy Wednesday. That day would have dissolved away like any other day of my life if not for her and her utter dislike for shade.
I think I stuck around after my first encounter with her because unlike other expected social situations, I didn’t make her acquaintance on her best day but instead on one of her worst ones. She was furiously pacing up and down the hall, crashing several times into the coffee table placed strategically in the center of the room. After the sixth time or so she just picked it up and transferred it into the kitchen, laughing at it while she carefully set it down in that tiny space. She then locked herself in the bathroom for some twenty odd minutes and walked out wearing nothing but a long blue t-shirt and white knickers. Her hair was untidily pulled into a bun resting unbalanced on the top of her head, and her eyes were puffy and red presumably from all the crying. I was stunned by the sight of it all. It felt as if I had walked onto the set of an indie low-budget film. She floated around her house almost like a living painting. That entire scene-- everything that I was looking at but wasn’t supposed to just kept reeling me in deeper and deeper. I wanted to move away and let her have her moment, but my body refused to cooperate. I don’t know if I was lurking or peeping or intruding, but I was there with her just as much as the pain and anguish in her eyes. She’d cover her mouth to stop herself from screaming and then the very next second take a breath so deep and hold it in for so long that her clenched fists were ready to knock her out of her foolishness. As much as I wanted to comfort her and hold her and tell her that everything would be alright, I figured in that very instant that she wasn’t someone who’d buy any of that nonsense. That was the day I understood the difference between pretty and beautiful.
She didn’t stand out from the crowd not because she wasn’t pretty, but because she was beautiful, and since we as a species had lost our ability to spot, appreciate and preserve beauty ages ago, we’d failed to notice her radiance, her substance, her flawed yet aspiring existence and her complexity from the very beginning. I could never gather the strength to walk up to her in the street and introduce myself or talk to her. I continuously hate myself for not letting her know how special she is, especially to me, but I think that is also part of her charm and mysticism. I think she already spends hours loving and hating herself—I don’t need to do that for her.