Through Her Window

The room that Lena lived in was drafty and stale at once. The only light source came from a small vent-sized window at the south facing wall. This was no matter, however, since her eyes were fully adjusted to the dark; she seldom left her room. In fact, it was hard to tell if anyone even knew Lena was even there.

In the corner of the room there was a pile of canned beans next to a single, grimy spoon. The emptied ones made a pyramid in the corner directly opposite. Every couple of days, a freshly finished can would be placed at the base, and the slimy innards left on the wall within would congeal, harden, flake off. The spoon was replaced on the ground, ready for its next use. A rusted and dented clock hung lonely on the wall adjacent to the window, displaying the wrong time. Lena paid this no mind. What she appreciated was the relentless springed tick of the seconds. They came precisely. They were unmarred by any external source and they were predictable. This was the only sound in the room.

Of most significance was what lay below and slightly to the left of the window. A leather bound journal with a worn spine, wrinkled from heavy use. This journal contained a life, detailed to precision. Not Lena's, but one which she consumed. The pages were scrawled with jagged cursive and catalogued every instance her obsession presented itself. She knew the girl's schedule, her routes, the space of time she would walk the length of Lena's window on her way home. Following these brief moments, Lena shook, envigored by the experience of watching Maya go by. Her journal placed on her knee, and opened to a fresh page, she detailed what she just saw.

Lena learned, of course, that Maya wouldn't come to the same spot every day, and at that, she wouldn't be in her view for a prolonged time. During these off days and hours when Maya wouldn't be expected, Lena read and reread her previous accounts, flipping the pages with malice and hunger, trying to consume everything she could about the girl. She would read until the first blank page, and then begin again, with the very first time she met Maya:

Perched at her window, Lena gazed at the world below. The city the tiny room in the building hovered over snaked on endlessly. Cars lined the street bumper to bumper. They inchwormed along, horns, exhaust engines and all. The grunt of a man with a briefcase pushing his way through a group of highschoolers, coffees in hand and bags that slouched on their backs. They rattled with pens at their movement. A homeless woman lay at the foot of the bank's staircase entrance, dead or alive. Her silver coiled hair haloed her head, eyes closed and wrinkled at the edges. Even in her sleep, she clutched her change cup to her chest, fiercely.

Maya was the next figure to come into view.

She got off a bus, bag full and pressing on her back, bruised orange in hand. She started off down the street in the direction the bus came from. There was an ever so subtle jaunt to her step: a bouncing rhythm that told Lena the girl placed most of her weight on the balls of her feet, leaving deep creases in her shoes. Her arms swung dancingly with her stride. This died when the girl reached the homeless woman who lay motionless on the ground. She stopped not a foot from her face, staring down. Observing, motionless. Lena couldn't see the girl's face but she imagined it to be plain of emotion, simply staring and only perhaps with a slight twitch of her brow, deciding whether to furrow or not.

She began to peel the orange. The girl's sharp thumbnail slicing into the skin, creating and lifting a lip where the sticky juice began to pool after a small citrus spray. She handled the orange with concentration, her thumb spooning underneath the skin, lifting it and peeling it carefully. A steady trickle of fluid paved a fine line down the length of the slender forearm, gathering at the point of the elbow until it was heavy enough to drop.

Lena's attention belonged only to this girl, her orange, the sticky droplets that fell and connected with the ground. Saliva began to well in her mouth. A viscous warmth she loved the taste of. A bulging drop peaked it's way through the right corner. It fell, following the wrinkled crevices to her chin. The woman hurriedly wiped her face with unfaltering attention to the girl outside. The watery stream replaced itself. Cascading and pooling at its point and following a trail down her neck. It dampened the soiled collar of her shirt.

Outside, the orange was nearly fully peeled. The girl's hands were slathered and sticky with bits of the peel trapped under her thumbnail. The woman on the ground lay there as she had been before, completely unfazed by the girl and the shadow she cast. Entirely unknowing of her orange. Finally, the girl crouched down by the woman's head, and then placed the orange on the peel in front of her.

The girl rose, and continued on her way. After a few strides, the jaunt returned to her step.

Lena remained at her window. Staring at where the girl was only moments before. Body shaking and soaked mouth.

The orange sat on its peel, so juicy it soaked the pavement below