Our Window

It was the end of the month. She was tackling a sales report in her bedroom/office, anxiously bouncing in her ergonomic swivel chair and humming a BTS bop erroneously. It was just about lunchtime. The day had flown by. Her morning was a monotonous string of head nods in Zoom meetings she may as well have not attended and passive-aggressive emails with the morons in finance. Her work, as awful as it sounds, validated her. And she was fine with knowing this sensitive truth. Although her recent conduct may suggest a strong lack of self, the events of recent weeks revealed her deeper, darker intuitions. Of which, she was oddly grateful. 

An obnoxious alarm blared from her phone, as it did at this time every day. Her attention was so wrapped in the urgent report, she hadn’t checked the time or any messages she’d received for at least thirty minutes. She grabbed her phone to turn off the racket. On the lock screen, a notice displayed a recent message from her husband:

“I got out of a meeting early again. On the 23 bus, I should be home in a minute. Gotta be quick, but we should have enough time. Love you! See you soon, beautiful.” 

She peered out of her window and sighed. The city bus was resting at the stoplight at the end of the block. Gray clouds were bunching in the sky around the city skyline in the background. The buildings that loomed as a beacon of sorts to all who lived in this marvelously weird place. A city that had broken and mended her heart so many times, it’s DNA was forever stitched into her being. 

It’d be only a minute before he was home. She thought about waiting until he left but quickly decided against the notion, for this was a timely task. No chances could be taken.

She knelt down to the lowest drawer in her armoire and rummaged through socks and sweatshirts. Underneath the strategically placed clutter was her lockbox, simple and childlike. A box for love letters and sentimental Polaroids. She fiddled through the combination lock in seconds. It’s contents, far from sentimental. No pictures or letters, but a crinkled box of contraceptives. She turned the wheel and popped out the tiny pill. The last one - she was out.

The slam of the front door echoed through their tiny row home. He shouted her name and she shouted back, the pill clinging to the tip of her tongue. She swigged it down with iced coffee kept at bay by the laptop, and switched her Slack status to “Away”. 

Thumps of his sturdy black work shoes on the creaky wooden staircase exposed his presence. At the last possible moment, she shoved the lockbox back in its place, tossed a sweatshirt over it, and crouched on her bed into a semi-provocative pose. 

The door swung open. He barreled in like a zoo animal freshly escaped. His hands were working on the knot in his tie. He’d somehow yanked his shoed feet through his slacks and discarded them somewhere on his mad dash for the bedroom. 

“We’re still in our window,” he said, panting. “I, uh, I thought what the heck? Slow day, might as well be productive in some way. Are you ready? Should we maybe do something to get in the mood?”

She thought about the sales report she’d yet to send to her boss. She also thought about the leftovers from last night’s Chinese takeout and how excited she was to revisit it.

“I’m ready if you are.”

Six minutes and eleven seconds later, the deed was done. He was sitting at the edge of the bed redoing the tie he’d just unknotted. She, too, was redressing for work, slipping into her most formal pajamas. Whatever guilt she may have felt in the weeks before was missing from today’s shotgun baby-making attempt. If anything, the Chinese takeout had taken up the majority of real estate in her head. It was that good.

Her husband’s face was stoic, but his glassy eyes revealed his frustrations. 

“This has to happen for us eventually. We’ve been trying for nearly five months now.”

She was well aware of how long they’d been trying.

“Doc said this was our ovulation window,” he said. “Maybe we should make another appointment for next Monday, see what the problem is.”

“Patience. That’s all he’s going to say. Have patience.”

The thought of visiting the doctor again somehow never crossed her mind. She felt incredibly stupid. This was going to blow up in her face. 

“I’ll have to send you this article I read about the best positions for conception. We can try one tonight.”

“Really, tonight? Don’t you think once a day is enough?”

He turned to her. 

“What is up with you? I mean, isn’t this what we decided on, together? Please tell me if you have any better ideas for how to conceive, okay. Please. I’d rather hear constructive ideas than criticisms.”

She wasn’t being fair to him, and she knew it. It was time to tell the truth. But before she could, he interjected.

“I’m sorry. Don’t say anything.”

He wrapped his arms around her.

“I shouldn’t assume such nonsense. I love you, I trust you. This whole baby thing is so exhausting. I’ve been feeling quite fried lately. You must be feeling this, too.”

She pulled him in closer. She’d be a fool to not take advantage of the delay. It was then that her husband reminded her what she was running from.

“I can’t wait to finally have a child so we have that push to get out of this city. Get that house in the suburbs on a nice, quiet street. I’ve seen some promising options in our price range near my parents’. I’ll send you the link to those, too.”

Her teeth gritted with rage. 

“You know,” she started, suddenly chipper. “Noelle and Leon floated this awesome idea by me yesterday. What if, this summer, we backpacked across Southeast Asia? Temples in Thailand, motorbikes in Vietnam. We could eat pho every day if we wanted. Try regional versions we’d never get here.”

“Sounds awesome. Damn. Big bummer we can’t go. We’ll be a bit preoccupied this summer, won’t we?”

He was gone five minutes later. Back to work. Literally and figuratively stranded, she watched the needles of skyscrapers burst the rainclouds above from her bed. Her phone buzzes. It’s him, the article. Eight Positions You Must Try-

Her arm acted on impulse before she could finish the title. She tossed the phone with disgust. It soared across the room into a pile of dirty clothes.

She sauntered down to the kitchen. On the box in the fridge, a kind note from the restaurant, personalized specifically for her. Only took eight months of ordering the same thing every Thursday. She flipped the plastic lid of her true desire, cracked open a can of flavored seltzer, and walked all the way back to her room before realizing she’d forgotten to reheat her leftovers. Cold noodles would have to do. 

She slurped as she typed, putting the finishing touches on a sales report that was due an hour ago. Her mouse clicked send, and then hovered over to her Slack channel. Her attention drew back to the lockbox. Instead of switching back to Active, she alerted her boss she’d be back in 20 minutes. A seasonal migraine flared up during lunch, she’d be only a few minutes at the drug store. 

She slid her arms through the sleeves of her raincoat and cocked her umbrella like a soldier scrambling between trenches. The door to their home opened to an orchestra of chaos. Honking horns, sirens wailing in the distance. She stepped onto the stoop. Her eyes immediately locked on the bus stop directly across the street. 

Two teenagers sat alone under the glass awning of the bus stop, passionately tangled in another. Pecking and smooching, giggling amongst the onslaught of nature around them. She stood in the rain, watching the teens for an uncomfortably long beat as her heart stood confused, unsure whether to flutter or sink. 

Her convictions were reaffirmed. She didn’t want to watch this love of life grow before her eyes in the form of a child. He would be broken by her actions. The complexity of her ruse would astound and disappoint him. Their relationship would effectively end.

The charade would have to continue, at least until she was ready to say goodbye. Stomping through puddles indented in walk-worn sidewalks, she pressed on to the drug store.