Across the Street

I’m not usually nice nor happy in the morning. Today, a cold morning that was expected to be hot, I feel even worse. The warm breeze that usually rises forgot to show up and what I see through the window seems to be anything but a summer day. It's cold, too cold. I could swear I saw a snowflake, but it’s too early to make swears. 

I hear an alarm ringing, followed by a creaking of the bed in the next room and a squeak of enthusiasm, which announces the end of my moment and gets my day starting. Clara woke up.

“Good morning! Are you seeing the same thing I am? It’s snowing! It’s snowing in August!”

I ignore her, trying and failing to postpone the headache that arises. Why would I, in my damn mind, agree to share my apartment with an energetic, noisy, university student?

“Coffee?” The same not-so-velvety voice of youth interrupts my thoughts.

I nod and force a smile. The girl is a waste of energy but, after all, she pays half the bills and makes coffee (and provides company in these troubled times). I watch her as she skips around (who skips after turning 10 years old? Actually, who is it that dares to smile on a Monday morning after turning 10 years old?) then I turn my attention back to the street.

Human beings lack a reasonable logical explanation for the bad mood a Monday morning transmits to us. However, despite its irrationality, as the stereotype of a moody worker that I am, I face this challenge with the glum facial expression it deserves. Me and a vast majority of people I watch on the sidewalk and within the cars on this weird day of summer.

But not her. Across the street, parallel to my floor, she, looking at the snow while training her best smile in the large, mirrored, panoramic window. At this point, I’m so accustomed to seeing people in masks that receiving her smile through the window bristles every inch of my body. She’s wearing colorful and youthful clothes. 

“She's beautiful isn't she?” - the annoying voice, now slightly less high-pitched, returns, passing a hot mug right to my cold hand. The thermal shock between the ware and my skin hurts as a guilty pleasure would.

“Who?”

“The woman, the neighbor. She is indeed beautiful. She looks sad though.

“Why do you think that?”

“Argh, men are so clueless!”

This observation leaves Clara thoughtful for a fleeting moment before returning to her natural mood. Of course, she won’t let other people's stories disturb her daily state of enthusiasm and self-absorption.

“Oh no, I'm late for classes. Can you give me a ride?”

“Clara, you do this every day... “

“It’s the last time! Literally, it's like my last day of classes. It is not safe at all for me to be taking the bus with this weather and you too are leaving for work anyway!” she stares at me, her big eyes shining.

Clara is the stamped definition of a spoiled brat. The typical young adult who left her parents' house in search of fun and independence when, in reality, she has no idea of how to take care of herself.

“I’m leaving in 5 minutes with or without you.”

With another little jump, she runs to get ready.

I turn to the window one last time. The neighbor is no longer alone. A man with a giant bouquet of flowers is with her. Is it her birthday? Some sort of celebration? An apology? I see her accepting the bouquet and smiling back but something about the withdrawn body language intrigues me. She notices me and looks away.

“You look like a creep standing there watching them.” Clara is ready. “ Are we leaving?”

And we leave for another day.

Some days drag on. Snowy days. This odd phenomenon of a snow week in August has been discussed in all the news channels. Experts say that it must be a consequence of climate change. Some religious people say it's a miracle. Others say it's a warning, that something bad is coming.

Outside of that, watching the neighbors became a routine for me, an entertainment program. No, better than that, a game. A mysterious game whose objective is to decipher the dynamics of that odd, suspicious duo. I find it just as odd as these snowy days.

It annoys me not to understand what is going on in that window.. 

Clara tells me to take my mind off it, to find a healthier hobby. Whenever I call her attention to a fiery discussion or flower gifting (which has become more and more recurrent) I get a: “Never get between a man and his wife” and a big dramatic eye roll.

It’s eight in the evening and I am once again speculating on a cold, old bench in the small garden of my street. The same garden that divides my life from the game. The garden that divides the sides of the street, the two windows. 

I find myself watching the people passing by once again. Among them, I spot a young woman, walking (skipping actually) up the street with a glittery pink mask, oblivious to the heads that follow her cheerful movement.

Clara… What innocence, what recklessness…

She notices me and starts waving vigorously. I go to her before she decides to start screaming all the details of her day or something and we go to the apartment together.

“What were you doing alone in the garden?"

“Just looking at the snow. I don’t understand how the hell is snowing in August.”

“You’re lying”

“What?”

“You never “just” do things. What were you actually doing?”

“Thinking. You know, there are still those who do it.”

“You think too much.”

“Life is not easy. I have a lot to think about."

“Wrong!” Clara shouts as she goes to the window - Life is easy, people like you complicate it. If you focused on your problems without dispersing on others, you wouldn't have half of the wrinkles you have” she proceeds to point to my forehead

A sudden movement across the street interrupts our conversation. A discussion again? I don't see flowers today. Just arms in motion, a mess. 

It’s not my first time seeing those muscular arms exercising what appears to be way too much pressure on the woman's white and fragile body, but this time is different. Her body language is evident, it cannot be a misunderstand. I know something is off.

Her mouth opens as she cries, it’s evident that she’s screaming. Screams whose sound is not strong enough to come to me but shiver my bones from afar.

Clara, who until now was also looking at the window, drops her eyes to the floor, turns her back to the window, and takes a big deep breath.

“That's enough. This has nothing to do with us, I'm going to make dinner”

I ignore her.

“What are you feeling for tonight? Bolognese?” she tries again, gently pulling my arm.

“Bolog— Are you serious right now? Are you not watching the same thing I am?”

“Come on, be reasonable, will the fact that we are looking out from the window change anything? The answer is no.”

Her words pass me. She gives up and walks away. At least she’s not skipping. I don't think I could handle that right now.

Furniture on the floor, punches on the wall. The woman leaves my field of vision. And then the man. For a painfully slow two minutes, I see nothing. The woman reappears. The tears are now rivers and her hands are clinging to her face as she grabs a bag, a mask, a cigarette pack, and runs to the door.

She did not grab a coat. It’s snowing outside and she forgot to grab a coat. She’ll freeze. Perhaps get a cold. I have a lot of coats, I could prevent this very-much possible cold.

I remember Clara's words. What am I feeling? Am I worried or curious? Do I care enough about someone I don't know to do something?

“You're right. Looking out the window won’t change anything." I hum as I grab the fluffiest coat I can find and walk out the door.

I can still hear Clara screaming “That's not what I was saying! Don't get involved!”, But only adrenaline drives me now.

She’s in the garden, on the bench, shaking and crying while trying to light a cigarette ... I am sure that smoking is not a very safe activity while shaking.

She would look beautiful, certainly, if it wasn’t for the black cheek. She would look beautiful, certainly, if it wasn’t for the foundation in her neck that is not enough to hide the purple undertones. She would look beautiful, certainly, if it wasn’t for the shy and recent stains of blood on the swollen lower lip that is now staining the cigarette.

I fail to find the words to say and just place the fluffy coat over her shoulders. She flinches with the movement but does not refuse my gesture, adjusting her slim shoulders to the comfort of the coat. The spark of the cigarette end, which now shines on the snowish ground, takes away my attention for a second, and when I return to the sad reality, she is no longer looking at me.

I should have noticed the approaching man, but her fragile light distracts me.

Thoughtful and angry eyes, gleamed by some kind of narcotic and the anger I witnessed so many times from afar, flick between me and her until they stagnate in the pale hand stuck to my arm. With how cold it is, I hadn't even noticed that she had grabbed me.

I see a gun.

It’s not a fair fight. She has me in her hand and he has a gun in his.

“It is not his fault!” she screams for me but looking at him. 

The pale hand stopped pushing on my arm. I feel my legs shaking and the floor turning. I don't see anything anymore.

———

Two weeks passed by. The window that captured my attention is now empty, there are no more people to watch. There's no more snow to watch either. It disappeared just as quickly as my neighbors. Without a trace.

No one has time to remember the man across the street. No one excepts Clara. She, who warned me time and time again to “never get between a man and his wife”, that it was none of my business, that I have no proof or certainty.

“Let me know if it's burning too much.” she murmurs cautiously

It has been like this every day. Clara cleans the wound in my arm with alcohol and bandages, tears and words that are useless. On some bad days, I get angry with her. I scream with her not to clean my wound. I tell her that the bloody mark created by the pressure of Her nails when She grabbed me, is the only thing I have to remember Her. To check that I'm not going crazy like the people at the police station said. That it did happen.

I know I should be grateful to Clara for picking me that fateful night and bringing me home. But I don't remember much. I don’t feel anything. She told me I probably had a panic attack and that it explains why I passed out and lost consciousness. That even if I didn't had a panic attack, my testimony would still not be reliable due to my schizophrenic history. That I can’t state that I saw a gun as a fact, that I may have hallucinated.

All I can do now is pray and hope that the next nosey neighbor across the street who sees Her will have the guts to stop what I was unable to.