The sky glowers, it is a dark gray, brewing a storm that I welcome. My nose is pressed against the cold of the window leaving a mark, my mark. I swipe at it and suddenly it could be anyone’s mark. Silence bears less weight in an empty house. The voices of the storm will soon fill the walls better than those who usually inhabit them, with all their creaks and gripes.
The sudden burst of light from the phone on my bedside table sparks the glow that spreads to my fingertips, it is fleeting. Only a friend asking a favor, I don’t mind it, I oblige. Returning to the window’s calming static. My focus finds shapes in the ever-forming clouds. I think I see a heart in the seconds before it shifts to a hand. After that it becomes hard to tell, my gaze flicks too often to the mahogany table.
Before me, the neighborhood I know so well slowly obscures into an unfamiliar abyss, the pavement glints nearly silver. It hurts to look at, I stare harder. This beauty is foreign, we hardly ever get storms. The skies are clear nearly every day, clouds don’t dare disrupt the never-ending blue, not even perfectly white and fluffy ones. Today is a rarity, an oddity the news said, brought in by coastlines of lands distant from us. I wonder how the people are over on the coast, with storms like this cloaking normalcy. I wonder if they are happier. If gray skies bring a depth that blue ones lack. If the grass isn’t always greener, maybe there is something to a lack of color.
The tension in my chest rises threatening to implode my ribs, letting everything fall, maybe even relax, no longer imprisoned by the bones that hold me together. I touch the tips of my fingers to either temple massaging in slow circles. Pain echoes through the hollowness. Once again my gaze finds the blank screen. I lift it and see myself. My eyes are sullen, red-rimmed, and empty. The sight is frightening. Maybe I’ve looked like that all along under everything. My curls stick out at odd angles, pulled back in attempted composure.
My hands have cracked, the skin around the nails bloody, pulled at by my own fingers. I shudder, tucking the cuts safely beneath my legs. My stare returns to the window. It is large enough to see six houses across and six houses down. It is a bay window cushioned and well-loved meant to be looked out of. From my seat, the cool panes provide a view as I provide them company. Suddenly two dark specks seem to emerge from the depths of the gray. As they come closer I realize they are not specks but people, hand in hand, taking what I only assume to be an afternoon walk. I’m stunned at the sight, the sky could break at any moment.
They come closer and closer until the concrete runway they confine themselves to loops right under me. The tops of their heads meet my eyes. One has inky black hair, it hangs long and straight obscuring any other defining facial features but striking all on its own. The other is quite the opposite. Her hair bounces in tight blonde ringlets, the curls don’t seem to know how dull it is out or, they just don’t care, shining as if the sun is here to see them. I hold my breath while the women stand below, though I know they won’t look up, nobody ever does. I can’t tell why they've stopped, there is nothing particularly interesting about this house. My shutters are blue and wear of age, the house three stories like all of those that neighbor it. Most of the curtains are closed besides the one I peer through, a deep navy to match the shutters. The blindingly white porch that wraps around the home’s base is the only thing that differs it from the others. That as well as the apple tree we share with the Lanning’s next door. In the Fall air, it is in full bloom, fruits of a brilliant red hanging ready to be picked.
As if privy to my thoughts, the beautiful strangers below creep towards the tree. They seem worried someone might jump from behind and scold them. Even if I could, I would do no such thing. The coily blonde picks what is the most delicious-looking apple, its hues can be seen from the third story window, not a bruise visible to my prying eye. She bows down onto one knee offering the forbidden fruit to her lover, or friend, I can’t tell. The jet black hair falls back to reveal a soft smile, one that contrasts the rest of her severe appearance. She takes a large bite making a real show of it before tackling the coil of blonde to the earth in a hug. They lay in my yard laughing and meaning it, holding each other, lovers I decide. There is a crack in the air, no water but thunder shakes the tree as a white streak paints the sky void of any other color. A warning. The two get up, where most would scramble, they stand at their leisure. Hands finding each other, I watch them until they are nothing but specks again.
My head falls once more against the cold glass and the storm breaks over the scene in a roar. It demands to be heard as it knocks against the glass. The cries are soothing to my ears, willing the pain in my head away. I want to go outside and let the water devour what’s left of me; an offering to those that cry from above, let them know that I cry with them.
I pull my hands away leaving the small circles of my forehead, aching all the while, maybe I’ll take a walk.
By Anaiis Rios-Kasoga
