Windows

A poetic story about how one shouldn't fall in love with expectations.

“What would you do-“

Winter, with its icy breath, frosted the storefront glass of his eyes.

“-if someone promised to love you forever?”

Swatches of blues, greens, and purples flickered behind now opaque walls,

various shapes and sizes made guessing impossible.

Suddenly aware of how small she was, she drew back into her own ice-covered panes, back towards the hearth,

towards the fire whose glow radiated outward,

caressing the dark street between them with gentle orange hands.

A fire whose warmth had attracted such company in the first place. 

“I’d care only if that someone was you.”

A fracture of satisfaction spread across his eyes,

revealing, in the corner, something blue.

No sooner had it opened did the harsh cold smother it in ice yet again.

His eyes were rigid, blurred bits of color and expenses, glistening in the moonlight,

the eyes of a large shop.

She took pleasure in picturing all the delights and promises he described to her,

such things she could not yet see.

Purple satin, green leather, blue blouses, diamond necklaces, and red roses.

All for her,

once the cold receded.

She glanced around.

Her eyes were that of a small house.

A home, a fire, a barely warm cup of tea, an open book, shelves filled with trinkets.

Why does he love me so?

How lucky I must be. 

She longed to share these personal delights with him,

her love for fires, for books, for warm drinks.

She dreamed he’d love them too, and that she’d love his own joys,

that their souls would grow together like flowers.

She begged for a glimpse of the beautiful things he kept within him,

encouraging him to share his treasures with the world,

with her.

“In the spring, when its warmer, in the spring, I swear it.”

And so, she dreamt of spring.

There in the fire’s embrace, her head on a pillow, she dreamt and dreamt.

Her soul reached for a different season, a different world,

one in which the temperature,

the sun,

the number of petals on each flower,

would be just right,

just perfect enough for redamancy.

She thought not of how much she gave away,

of how much she gave him.

Winter was for fire, for books, for warmth and love.

And he was so very cold.

I can share, I can give.

I am the only one who can.

Necklaces and blouses don’t belong in winter, those are for later.

He would describe them to her until then,

such beauty,

she gazed into those storefront eyes, lost and forgetting her own,

trying so hard to see such things in those blurs of color. 

She pulled the blanket around her tightly,

shivering.

Half her fire was gone,

its new home across the street where, if she squinted hard enough, she could see its glow.

Within the store.

Far far away from her.

“Why do you keep it so far away from me?”

“I don’t want it to burn all the things I have, the things I have for you.”

A voice colder than all the ice on all the windows. 

And thus it continued.

Little by little, 

chip by chip,

she gave him half of everything but the very framework of her house, of her body. 

Spring is coming.She would whisper to herself,

curled up on the floor as the snow melted from the sills of her eyes and trickled down to earth. 

 

And come it did. 

 

Curtains were flung back as she awoke that morning,

the cold haze of the windows now gone and clear,

melted away by the new sun.

She peered across at him,

across the street no longer bathed in fire but in warm sunlight. 

He complained.

“It’s not warm enough.”

Crack.

Crack crack crack.

Shattered glass fell at her feet as she sprung forward, free.

Pale feet soft against rough pavement,

she ran towards him, leaving behind her entire self.

No longer swathed in frost, his storefront eyes looked foreign.

Dull. 

As she gazed beyond the scratched glass she saw not luxuries and gifts.

Empty boxes that once held assorted items,

creased posters that displayed expensive objects.

Brightly colored, but damp and damaged.

She gazed into the husk of a store,

where the greed of high prices and cheap goods,

the cruelty of hard times,

had left its mark. 

An eviction of value. 

With windows now cracked and broken,

she searched for him,

but he was no longer there.

The store was no longer there.

Empty glass started back at her,

its very material strange and alien and ominous. 

In the dark corners she could see all the things she had taken such pride in sharing,

all the things she had hoped would bring him happiness,

scattered and rotting, forgotten. 

“You have no money with you.” 

Words like shards.

Her mouth opened, like a creaking door, but nothing came out.  

No questions, no curses.

How he had promised.

How he had taken.

How he had disregarded.

She banged against the glass with weak fists,

begging to be let in all the same,

but it was the glass of a store, 

not a home.

It would withstand bullets, thieves,

any danger to the nothing inside. 

It was only then, sitting out on the sidewalk 

peering into where she thought her happiness would live,

did she understand why people said eyes were windows to the soul. 

Author's Note

How did you interpret the meaning of this?