"The Window"

An assignment from my first creative writing class. This is what I came up with.

Life has been grim since the accident. My bones ache, my head throbs, each breathe a shrill wheeze. The weight of my belly numbs my thighs as I sit hunched by the window. The flies, desiccated by the fierce summer heat, rest upon the windowsill as my sole companions. I’ve made mistakes and now I’m paying for them.

I crack the window to let in the bustling city. Cars, bikes, and buses hum a steady rumble. Food vendors infest the sidewalk. Vibrant umbrellas shading sizzling grub on aluminum trays. Halal carts and sausage stands. The air’s ripe with spices. The sharp bite of pepper dancing with swirls of cumin and smokey paprika left the city air rich and layered. Roamers dodge one another, gripping shopping bags and iced drinks. Graffiti litters the alleyways between the polished buildings. I pour a scotch for lunch and tune into the chaotic symphony of laughter and chatter.

There’s a picnic in the park. I see a mother chasing her boy, giggling with his grape soda mustache and grass-stained knees. He is determined to evade capture. Instantly I begin to reminisce about a younger version of myself- imaginative, ignited with a spark of untapped potential and supplied with boundless possibilities. I could turn a stick into a sword, a trash can lid my shield, and all my toy knights had names and duties.

I top off my lunch. Now there’s nothing but the weight of time and the thought of what if? I see a man in a well-tailored suit, urgency in his stride. One hand holds a phone, married to his ear. In the other, a computer bag swings by his side. I watch as he winds through the herd, on a quest to reach the mighty skyscraper. There was a time I too moved with such precision, sharp and focused, years consumed by deadlines and meetings. The most I saw of my wife was the photo kept on my desk. I was the best “yes man” at the firm and the master of breaking promises to Ellen. We broke before ever starting a family. Shortley after the divorce I traded my turkey club for a rocks glass. Soon after I started that diet, I lost the job.

There are plenty of things seen but not noticed in the urban jungle. I spy a beggar, his hair grey on top with stringy golden strands resting on the shoulders of his wrinkled shirtless body. Iggy Pop’s doppelganger. A brown paper bag clenched in his fist suggests we both do liquid lunches. Unlike the boy and the businessman, I can relate to the beggar now more than ever.

A year ago, after “lunch” I decided I needed to go for a drive. My eyes began to flutter until the lids gave in. It started with a swerve and ended with a bang. I was wrapped around a pole and my legs were crushed.

I nodded at the beggar even though he doesn’t notice me, high in my perch above the city. I yanked down the blinds and pulled the lock on the wheelchair. Looking down at my chaffed and scared nubs I thought about skipping dinner and binging on desert.