A Room With A View

Chapter One - Brian

September 1st, Friday

Brian Cooper threw his pen against the wall. It was no use, the ideas simply weren't coming. He would have to tell his editor that the novel would need to be postponed. Again.

     He stood up from his chair and walked a lap around his apartment, flexing his muscles. It was a small studio on the twelfth floor, and a lap took all of three minutes. He paused by the window and looked out.

     The Watley building had been constructed in two imposing towers that connected below the fifth floor. The view over Central Park was truly stunning. If Brian could see it from his apartment. His salary could only gift him with an inside unit, and so his view was the parallel tower across the courtyard divide. It had been a bit awkward when he had first moved in four years ago, but Brian had quickly become accustomed to the feeling of being stared at. No one lived in secret at the Watley. All the neighbors' dirty laundry could be aired, simply by looking out the window into the apartment across the way.

     It had ended up being a good source of inspiration for Brian's previous novel. He had watched an entire marriage crumble into oblivion in apartment 6J, and that had made for a few rather vivid scenes. But the former Mr. and Mrs. had moved out, and a girl had come in their stead.

     Well, a woman. At least, she looked like a woman. Not that Brian had watched her in that way. Although, he hadn't not watched her in that way.

     Brian shook his head, his cheeks warm. He crossed to the little kitchenette and poured himself a glass of water.

     The new Ms. 6J had moved in last year. Her apartment overlooked the little courtyard that covered the fifth floor roof. Brian had never seen anyone on that courtyard. It had been a push from Phin Watley to add both decor and decorum to the building, but the Watley towers always cast the courtyard in shadow, no matter the time. So the newly planted shrubs and flowers had withered and died, never getting their chance in the sun. Phin's smile had faded just a touch after that revelation, but he was doggedly back on another project and looking upbeat and eager.

     Brian sat down at the creaky rolltop desk he had bought second-hand at the flea market, and adjusted his glasses. If he leaned in his seat, he could just barely see into 6J. Her windows were dark. Brian sighed. He had tried taking her elevator once to see if he could say hello, but he had gotten too nervous and stepped out at the fifth floor, racing through the hallways until he made it breathlessly to his side. Maybe tomorrow, he had thought that evening, and every evening since. They never crossed paths in the lobby, and when Brian had made an offhand comment to Phin about the new tenant, Phin had changed the subject.

     The phone rang. Brian jumped, his elbow catching his glass and sending water splashing all over his moleskine notebook.

     "Damn." He leapt up and grabbed a napkin, dabbing quickly at the running ink. A few words were still legible, but the remainder of the page was lost. Brian sighed.

     "It was shite anyways," he mumbled, ripping the page from the notebook and crumpling it in his hands.

     The phone began ringing again. Brian instinctively reached for it, then stopped. He checked the caller ID. Charles Guilford. His editor. Brian hadn't spoken to his editor in three weeks, and his manuscript was five weeks past due. He didn't know how to tell Charles that he had nothing.

     Brian rubbed the space between his eyes, waiting for the accusatory ring to stop. If he pressed the button, Charles would know that Brian was screening his calls.

     The ringing stopped. Brian waited, but it didn't ring again. Instead, a voicemail notification popped up on the screen. Brian flipped his phone over and leaned back heavily in his chair.

He stared up at the drab popcorn ceiling, hoping for answers, but none were there. He had three books to his name and numerous other short stories and articles neatly folded into the spaces of his apartment, but rather than feel celebratory, Brian just felt like a sham. "Shockingly young", "genius new author", "he writes words as if he breathes them", the critics had said. But the last book, published on the eve of his 33rd birthday, had been met with minimal success. Critics had largely panned it, and so the young genius had become old, worn out, and used. It was this feeling that had clammed him up. Brian hadn't been able to write a full page since.

     He slowly spun his chair and rested the back of his head against the glass of the window. He craned back his neck, looking up at floors 15 through 27. At this perspective, he could just barely see the hint of a couch in 15J, and their odd choice of a pumpkin-orange painted ceiling. He often wondered what sort of people would choose a pumpkin-orange ceiling. He may never know.

     Trailing his eyes up towards the penthouse, he nearly fell out of his chair. Agatha Newman was staring at him. Well, perhaps not at him, but she was staring down in his general direction. She was too far away to make out her face, but Brian imagined it to be puckered, her eyes narrowed in distaste. He had only ever met Agatha Newman on one occasion, and that had been at his first, and only, Watley public board meeting. Agatha had been there, sitting in the front row with one leg tossed over the other, her arms tightly folded. She had watched everyone as they walked by, and Brian had noticed that they never seemed to look at her back. Trying to make a good first impression, Brian had taken the seat next to hers and held out a hand for introduction. She had simply looked at it and sniffed.

     "There's been spots in my water," she had said to him, her voice raspy and gravelly. Brian hadn't known what to say back, so he simply sat and waited for the meeting to begin. He had been so uncomfortable, that he had never gone back, preferring to get his news from Phin in passing.

     Brian watched Agatha watch him. Neither of them moved. When his neck was finally burning, Brian twisted back around to his desk.

     "Okay," he huffed. "You can do this." He picked up a pen, and placed the nib to his page. With a quick glance at 6J, he began to write.