Writing on Windows Once More

I have a fascination with windows.

This is a sudden realization, and it comes to me, of course, while sitting in front of a window. It’s only one of those small ones, nothing grand. The window, I mean, not the realization. Though I guess there’s nothing amazing about a window obsession, either.

Shaking the circles of words from my head I go to stand, wanting to see if the coffee has finished brewing. The machine isn’t roaring or belching as it tends to do while brewing coffee, a developing problem that I keep forgetting to look into. It’ll probably need to be fixed, I expect.

A second realization: I’m fixed.

No, not like that. I’m fixed to the spot. I’ve sunk so far into this chair that it refuses to release me, refuses to allow my warm body to be removed from its upholstered embrace. I wiggle a bit, hoping to loosen myself from the cushioned clutches, and find myself oddly, well, able. There’s nothing holding me, nothing keeping me down.

Realization number three: my legs have betrayed me. Those two fleshy limbs that have supported me all my life, save for the times my arms lent a hand or two, are now revolting. I’ve read about things like this, so I search my mind for clues to coerce my legs into cooperating. Somehow, I don’t believe letting them eat cake will help.

But it’d probably make me feel better: cake with my coffee. Coffeecake? Or is that something different entirely? Baking was never my forte: just eating baking.

I sigh. I slump. I’m pretty much just a sagging lump in this chair, defeated by my own body: double-crossed by my own legs.

Double-crossed? I look down at my legs again. Or just crossed?

With a little effort I unfold them, and a painful tingling races from my toes to my thighs. Good gawd, I’m being eaten alive by invisible termites from the waist down, like I’m stuck in their big invisible termite nest. Termite hill? Termite… lair?

By the time I’ve exhausted my vocabulary of termite domiciles they’ve left, and in fact haven’t taken anything with them. Unless I had some sort of invisible legs that they have stolen from me: the legs of my soul. Or something like that.

Finally, I stand. I stumble over to the coffee machine on shaking legs (the soul parts of the legs were obviously integral to their use, it seems) and pour myself a cup. Or a mug, rather. Two spoons of sugar go in, followed by the spoon. I spin the dark liquid in a quick circle, admiring the whirlpool I’ve created: Charybdis would be proud.

I pull the cup to my waiting lips, and soon make the fourth realization of the day: I really am fascinated with windows.

The coffee is cold, almost unbearably so. I squish and contort my face as the bitter liquid passes my lips, the sugar having not dissolved with the lack of heat. Blegh. The girls never say it, but they all know the fourth criteria: strong, black, rich, and hot. Very hot.

Disappointed, I sit back down on my chair. It has a comforting warmth, almost as if I belonged there, sitting before the window. Of course, that warmth can be explained by the concept of residual body heat, but there’s nothing poetic or romantic in that.

And there’s so little that’s romantic these days.

So I sit still: warmed by my past and gazing out that small, squat window.

I really am fascinated.

The End

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