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The
Hotel Window
by
Piper Davenport
I.
His hands touched her breasts but they weren’t really
there. See, she believed that the human touch could evaporate without reason and
beyond the possibilities of eternity. But, when she told this to others, they
refused to look at the marks on my breasts. But didn’t want you want to touch
her? Didn’t you want to see inside her head and wonder how God made naked bodies
that hide behind foggy windows? And believed that if she had pushed herself
hard enough, she might have floated away to Neverland and never had to do
anything imagined.
II.
His eyes made her cry but they didn’t speak at all. See,
she believed that if we could make words from not speaking anything at all and
she cried while the world dropped tears from her eyes. If this had not happened,
she might have had nothing to look at when staring outside. She might not have
told their secrets, yes, theirs, without ever having made a telephone call. Just
lied in bed and dared someone, anyone to knock on the door. That would have
brought us to the center of the stage but the lights were off and she didn’t
care to turn them back on. But not that it would have mattered, she wouldn’t
have opened the door. She wouldn’t have moved past the cheap floral bedspread to
the television. Nor would she have turned on the television to watch old
wrestling shows from the ‘can’t-kill-me-80’s-era.’ No, but she wouldn’t answer
the door if anyone knocked. She’d rather run and hide from him. She’d rather
make him believe that she had flown away. Those eyes that she imagined about
when she sat and waited. She would rather do anything than watch those eyes over
and over again. Didn’t you want to destroy her? Didn’t you want to not say a
word and wonder how the hell God made bodies that won’t float, eyes that won’t
cry and knees that won’t plead? And you didn’t believe her when she said
that she pushed herself to stay. She suffered. She fell. She bled. Everyone else
had known but you. Everyone else had watched and waited.
III.
His heart escaped from in between her legs but it was
never his to give in the first place. See, she believed that if she waited, he
would allow her to be a free woman but she was wrong. The window won’t open and
she would have to hurt herself to fly away. She dreamed last night that you
destroyed some other woman and that it was she standing outside, next to the
telephone booth, with a pink scarf and blue lips, waiting. The ring flew out of
the window. The knock on the door came again but nothing stopped her from
putting those big hands around her throat as you dared her to look away from
you. She stood there smoking a cigarette, laughing as her dreams crumbled before
her eyes. She bleeds, she dies, she rumbles, she shakes and the world goes on. Didn’t you hear her? She called your name. But no, you want to watch her
watching you and wonder how God made bodies but God didn’t make minds? And
you didn’t believe her, so you pushed her down, again and again. You could never
imagine the possibilities so she floated away with both of our hearts, yours and
hers.
IV.
His lies were the reason she waited. She tuned
everything out. Even in blood, even in death, she kept her promise. She clutched
it like a purse and kept it locked away. It was found again in this room, amidst
the smell of dried sex, Chanel No. 5 and one lit table lamp. The room was empty.
The serving tray in the hallway covered with half-eaten food and she waited. The
telephone rang but she knew it was coming from across the street. The train not
stopping, the best of the worst, the sound of a man’s voice. All she could hear
was the faint sound of glass breaking. If he made a promise, he didn’t keep it
that night. But she was ready; her lines rehearsed: Didn’t you want to lie?
Truth be told, didn’t you want her to wonder how God made bodies? And he
didn’t believe her. He pushed her away. She fought back but he broke her. He
lied. He killed her. So, she destroyed the one thing he loved. With the curl of
a hand, she welcomed his lies. Two become one and not three.
V.
He sat by the window and she walked by. He winked at her
but she was not sitting next to him. She watched the eyes, all four of them. Two
pairs of eyes smirked. It was the not first time that had happened. She was used
to being in third place. Ten days later, she saw him again. It was six blocks
away. She had asked for the time; it was all she could think to say. Seven
o’clock on the dot. They stood near a flea market where a Cambodian woman walked
by and offered them eight-legged spiders, cooked to a crisp.
As the rain dropped, silence engulfed them until he told
a joke that made her blush and five fingers went over her mouth. It took him all
of twelve seconds to apologize. She smiled and he noticed a gap, separating
eleven of her teeth on the left from eleven on the right. That happened right
across the street. She didn’t remember, not until that night.
By then, she was crying. But no one could tell. The
window covered her sorrow the rain covered her tears. He walked by again. She
decided that she wasn’t going to wait again.
She knew what she was going to say: Didn’t he want to
wait for her? She had waited all this time, all these years to hear from him.
Locked away like broken hair follicles, she needed water to break away. Didn’t
he want her to be happy? But that was in her mind. Still, she believed in
happy endings. With that, she opened the window, called out to him and floated
away. To the land of happy endings. She believed that he would rescue her, that
he would catch her. So she closed her eyes and hoped that he would catch her.
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