The Tinted Window

A distinct dampness clings to the air

A lingering chill confirms the admittance of autumn

A house creaks, the squeal of floorboards

As she approaches the windowsill.

 

It was never about a spiteful affair

She may have given consent

But he enticed her

With a warmth she hungered for.

 

Exchanging glances through a silver sheen

In sane appraisal of their situation

She raises her palm to the glass

And he mirrors the gesture

A frigid cold leaves cold impressions in her skin

A ghost of warmth emanates through the barrier

Yet the ghost, she finds, is not enough.

 

A magnetic frost coats the window

Unusual behaviour for the morning

Something lost and something gained

But for whom?

 

An expectant little smile from the man in the window

Thinly veiling the proud satisfaction of his feat

As though for him no guilt exists

How could a moment of passion

Have quieted within her not only conscience

But reason and discretion too?

 

A separate figure appears behind her

She notes the arrogance of his features

Sharp characteristics like no other

But then his face transforms

A flicker of unaccusing grief

Before abandoning his burden.

 

The offender in the window briefly roots her in place

He regards her in a curious manner

As one would if harbouring an inkling of doubt

Sharing her guilt

So she thought.

The End

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