Front Street View

There was one time, in this city of millions where I almost didn’t feel alone. I stepped onto the balcony for a breath of fresh smog and a tumbler of whiskey. It was 3 a.m. and you were at your window, furiously washing dishes. I thought for a moment something would happen- your lover would come up quietly and kiss you on the neck or perhaps something more tragic… a break-in, a would-be attacker would be foiled be my chance sighting and quick dialing to the police. But these things did not occur. Nothing did. You went right on scrubbing angrily at the leftovers accumulated on your pots and pans. I poured myself another whiskey and watched you take out your frustrations with soap and sponge. I’m sorry for leering in on your semi-private life, but I wanted so desperately for you to look up across the street and see me smiling at you. I would have given you a friendly wave and a knowing grin. I too, sometimes do dishes at 3 a.m., alone. Although in retrospect I do not think I could match your passion or tenacity for cleanliness. I so desperately wished for you to see me, acknowledge our common loneliness. But you didn’t, you went right on scrubbing and I went right on drinking until I became too cold, drunk, and disillusioned with the fact that life is never like the fiction we are brought up to believe in, and I eventually turned in, to pour out my pathetic musings about our separate lives onto this paper. Acutely aware that the latching sound of the sliding glass door signaled the end of our endless possibilities.