He looked out of the window, gazed over to the other window: light was on there, and a silhouette was outlined against the light. There she stood, the dream he clung to. His gaze wandered, almost voyeuristically, over her curves – just a shadow behind the drawn fabric blind, only a depiction of her true splendor. He didn’t dare tell her what he thought and felt, after all, she could have been his daughter, so young was she. So it happened that he contented himself with secret glances, clinging to his dreams instead of speaking to her, perhaps even getting closer to her. He was only in his mid-forties, in the prime of his life – but he’d been alone for six years, ever since his wife had left him, and loneliness had left its marks on his soul.
No, he wouldn’t approach her tomorrow either, but would keep his wishes to himself – the occasional “Good morning” or “Hello,” presented with a smile, even that brought him joy. You become modest when you’re lonely.
In the evenings, perhaps a little more work – balancing the business accounts. A tedious but necessary task, punctuated by occasional chats with people, most of whom he didn’t know personally. And time and again, he looked – hoping her light would be on – over to her window.
From his workstation, he could see her and indulge in his dream. How would it feel to lie in her arms, or to feel her breath? Perhaps even his lips on hers… no. He wouldn’t nurture any hope. He was old enough to know that dreams usually remain just that. He looked again at the window; the light was out, she was probably in her bed now, thinking of her boyfriend or someone she loved. He looked back at the screen and turned his attention to work again…
She was delighted, he had turned on the light again – its warm tone suggested halogen lamps, painting his body as a silhouette against the window. She looked through the gap between the blind and the window frame, which she had left open to observe him. Yes, she liked him – him, who always knew how to smile so charmingly, who always greeted so kindly when they met on the street or in the nearby store. She enjoyed watching him, though he was older, but that didn’t matter to her. He was handsome and sympathetic to her. But she just couldn’t bring herself to speak to him.
What if she ruined something by doing so? What if he found her silly and inexperienced and laughed her off? The thought hurt her, gave her a pang.
No! The delicate fabric she thought she felt when they met, she didn’t want to destroy. She preferred to cling to her dreams and enjoy the occasional secret glance into his window when he sat in front of the monitor. It was a crush, nothing more, and she knew that – logic told her so, and she had learned to prioritize logic over her heart.
I stand in a garden; it is dark, and what I see are illuminated windows casting light into the courtyard. Leaning against a tree, I rest from my wanderings through the night.
I stand, leaning against a tree, and watch two shadows cast by the windows. They meet in this dark and empty courtyard, and it almost seems as though they’re embracing. Two shadows, created by light, finding the path to one another that people don’t dare to walk… and many shadows dance in the courtyards and hearts.