She’s sitting by the window, fresh autumn wind cutting through her melancholy.
‘We should close that window,’ a voice behind her says. She doesn’t turn, doesn’t move, doesn’t want to hear.
As a cold and cloudless afternoon followed a cold and cloudless morning, she's resigned herself to try and ignore what's going on in the other room; to sit by the window and watch, just watch as the sun makes its way to the end of its daily journey.
We should close that window, the voice had said. But why? With closed windows, sadness gets musty. With closed windows, nothing moves inside, and she needs the fresh autumn wind to cut through her; to make her a prism pierced by a ray of light.
It has been a long day already, though the days are getting shorter and shorter. There is no point in trying to salvage a day sometimes, in trying to make things right; and yet, one tries. One sits by a window and longs for something, for something to ventilate one’s mind. For change. How can one live with closed windows after all? But he just wants her best, is what he would’ve said had she told him any of this out loud, had she turned to him to say, “No, the breeze stays.”
Everyone just wants other people’s best, isn't that what they say? Isn't that the case every time, even now; even when they deeply misunderstand?
The voice goes somewhere else, the steps getting quieter and quieter before coming back in, walking into the room, trying again.
‘Do you want me to close that window? It’s getting chilly.’
No, she wants to scream: The window stays as it is. And leave me alone, she would add, but doesn’t actually say anything. What is there to be said? One might try as hard as one can to fix things sometimes, but then there is something else going on in the other room, something else happening in the room out of one’s sight, and one’s not sure what; one’s only sure of one’s own helplessness, one’s lack of any kind of power.
He doesn’t move, is still standing there. It’s funny, in a way that isn’t funny at all, that one can sharply sense when someone is around, especially when one doesn't want them to be. The presence is felt more than ever before, even if one’s back is turned and one’s eyes are facing another way. The other human being stands there, breathes silently, thinks out their next words and steps. He’s going to say something about the window again, she knows it. He’s going to make a case for the closing of the window until she gives up or, even more likely, until he himself decides to circumvent her silence and weariness himself to go to the window and close it.
What is he even doing here? What is he even doing here right now; why not go? Aren’t there groceries to be bought, appointments to be made, bills to be paid, dishes to be washed? Aren’t there any other things going on in the world or in their house or in his life, errands he should be running right now instead of standing there and thinking about a window that must be closed? Who cares about windows when there’s so much going on in the other room, in the room right next to the room where they are — who cares?
But then again, does he care about what’s going on in that room? Does he care nearly as much as she does? Of course he does, yes, she’s quick to answer herself. It’s only his sister-in-law, but he does, he cares, he must; he understands what it means. He understands. One must be careful with the kind of idea that springs out of nowhere and threatens to demolish everything, brick by brick. He cares, she repeats to herself. He must care.
All it would take, in an ideal world, would be for her to say “The window stays open, but you go away.” That’s all she should have to say. But then there is the other possibility, the likelier one; the possibility that he’ll just go on and on with arguments of his own, on and on with any idea of his that simply must make more sense than whatever she could come up with.
No word or replay would make any difference, not to a pragmatic being like he is. And it costs her so much to talk, to let the words out, to fish them out of the muddled pool sitting between her ears. If he hadn’t noticed that by now, would he ever? She chooses not to answer her own question this time. Slippery slope again. Dangerous.
He’s still around. Maybe he’s not looking at her anymore, or thinking about the window; maybe he’s not staring at her back; but he’s there, around her, somewhere. Thinking about what is going on in the other room much less than he should.
A glass of water. A glass of water would already improve her situation, but a glass of water feels like a distant dream. There is nowhere inside her where enough energy is being kept, enough energy to walk towards the kitchen, go to the room where glasses and water are to be found and mix them. As already established, asking him isn’t an option either. Asking him would make it worse.
Sometimes, like right at that moment, an idea would travel her entire body, and it would take her all her remaining energy to not let it slip out of her tongue. Like right now, the idea of confronting him; the idea of fighting him, of saying something to rile him up and force him to, if not be completely honest, then at least be confronted by a small drop of honesty. She should say it now, say something that he would have to process somehow, some time, even if not entirely; even if he still kept walking around, running his little errands, pretending life is more and less than it is. She should say something, something big that he would keep in the back of his mind for a rainy day, for when he felt down and needed more fuel to feel even worse. She should say something he would remember, that would generate the need for him to deal with the fact that she said it to him. She remains quiet; doesn’t know what to say, or how.
‘Hannah, shouldn’t we close the window now?’
‘For fuck’s sake, no,’ she snaps. ‘I want the breeze.’
‘Okay,’ he replies, moving away from her. She can still feel his presence in the room.
Hannah gets up, to her own surprise. Walks to the door, allowing her mouth to build a sentence from her thoughts. Says, more loudly than expected, ‘You should leave. And I don't know when I'll come back home.’
Hannah's husband gets up and says something she can’t pay attention to. She walks to the other room, where her sister is asleep, unconscious, dead and alive, lying on a bed of white. Hannah holds her dormant hand with a weak smile.
Nothing has changed; nothing. At every second, tragedy continues to strike. And yet, somewhere inside her, there is a new kind of warmth.