Illumined Windows

At night the high rises can be seen from miles away, interrupting the landscape, piercing the horizon like cosmic Gods.

If there aren’t many lights on, and if the lights are scattered just right, they sort of look like rectangular galaxies. Each illumined window is a brilliant star and if your imagination is wild enough, you can make out constellations.

Stars shining bright above you
Night breezes seem to whisper "I love you"
Birds singing in the sycamore trees
Dream a little dream of me

You said you wanted to see the stars, that they should be privy to our conversation.
“Why does it have to be cloudy tonight of all nights?” You said.
I heard myself saying I could make it happen.

So we drove out of the city until there were more trees than lamp posts and our brains stopped whirling with to-do lists. The doors thumped behind us and we retraced the steps we had taken before, when our arms linked together in romantic conspiracy.

We walked up the hill that we had claimed as our own, our first time, when we no longer wanted to be alone. And the trees thinned and the clearing came and the grass was soft like a sponge, as you liked to say, and we sat down with hardly a breath between us.

You fell back into the grass, in a playful way, the way my nieces do when they’re flopping against a pillow with a giggle and a laugh. Your eyes danced as you lived in the moment in some pure way I could only guess at. And for a second I saw a little girl, peeking out at the world through your eyes, adoring and innocent. Beautiful.

Then you said something about the clouds. Would I do a dance to alter the weather?

I smiled, taking your hand and pointing at the high rises.

Say nighty-night and kiss me
Just hold me tight and tell me you'll miss me
While I'm alone and blue as can be
Dream a little dream of me

“They look more like lines of code,” you said. And you said it in that way you do, when your voice becomes a quivering a lip, a balled up fist, a pair of puppy eyes.

I rolled mine and said, “Maybe, but that’s not nearly as romantic as stars.”

“But maybe it’s more realistic,” you said.

My forehead scrunched like an accordion. My eyes narrowed. Because your tone hinted at something more, something leading, like the foreboding conversation you had planned for tonight and kept postponing.

“Let’s tell the stories of those people,” you said, interrupting my thoughts. “The people behind the lights.”
I said that sounded fun.

“See that one?” And you untangled your hand from mine, pointing at a single window three miles away, but I nodded anyway with a pair of dimples.

“There’s a woman who feels like a child, because she just got her test back. She was a good test taker in school—that’s what her parents said. But this one scared the hell out of her. There was only one question and she failed. And it wouldn’t be so bad if she didn’t have to face it alone, but right now she’s on the phone with…well, nevermind…and she’s curled into the corner of the couch, unsure how he’ll take it.”

You paused, and I didn't know how to respond, so the silence echoed between us. Then you put your hand on your belly, in a way I hadn’t seen before, and pointed at another window.

“And in that apartment, there’s a woman still working at her computer, answering emails, feeling too old for suitors. And she’s got a badge on her blouse that reads “independent.” Every minute of every day is planned for, except for a rogue minute or two that sneaks in, and in those idle moments her mind always goes back to that one choice, and her heart, her home, feels empty.”

You looked at me then, with your face all strewn about, with damned emotions trying to come out. And I saw a question there, in your eyes, that you couldn’t speak out loud.

Sweet dreams till sunbeams find you
Sweet dreams that leave all worries behind you
But in your dreams whatever they be
Dream a little dream of me

I walked my hand over to yours, two fingers traipsing through the grass, searching for their home. With our fingers locked, I started to tell my own story.

“See that window? Third floor from the top?”

You nodded earnestly.

“There’s a little girl who looks like her mom, but she’s got her dad’s eyes. That’s what everyone says. And right now her hands press against the glass, still sticky from dinner. She stares out at the city, wondering what it’s like to fly and where do city birds sleep if there aren’t any trees?”

"They come out here," you said and looked around, as if a bird would come sailing in to prove your point. Then you asked me to tell another story.

“In that window,” I said with a nod of my head, “There’s a man eating a late dinner with his wife while sharing a bottle of wine. But what they’re really sharing is time, because even after raising a little girl and choosing each other almost every day for 29 years…well, is there a limit to intimacy?

“As they talk, their hands rest in that familiar way, one inside the other. The man knows each line, each crease, and the story that goes with it. And he thinks to himself that her hand is the only relevant measurement of time.”

I squeezed your hand and met your eyes, and the breeze, the cicadas, the leaves, they spoke for us. We smiled knowingly at one another, understanding that our stories were more than fiction. And a few tears broke past your eyelashes and you leaned in and hugged me tight.

We stayed there awhile, curled together in the spongy grass, sharing our dreams until the sun snuck a glance over the horizon to see if we were done, and for the first time our futures became parallel lanes leading back home.

(c) 2016 Michael Tannian