Across the street and directly opposite the bar, was an apartment building composed of mahogany brick—the paint peeling off the fire escape and the dirty stoop leading to a wide entrance hidden in the shadows. From the street, one could assume which apartments were currently occupied, as the lights flickered from the windows. In the darkness, one’s eyes could not help but gravitate towards the light.
Once more the door to the bar swung aghast, and this time, a man well into his life, stepped out. He carried grey from head to toe, the suit light, the shoes a shade darker, and a fedora on his head, the most potent grey of all, with a white feather to give the illusion of gaiety and trust. He looked down the street, and fixed the hat on his head, tilting it slightly over his eyes, and then he reached into his left breast pocket and pulled out a pack of Marlboro reds. He treated it with such fragility one might insist it were made of glass. He slipped a freshly packed cigarette into the right corner of his mouth and sparked a match. The flame hovered before his face, and illuminated his clear blue eyes—fierce in the night. He watched it dance, as the red flame dripped lower down the matchstick, his fingers beginning to sense the approaching warmth. And then something else caught his attention.
On the second floor of the building opposite the man, one lit window stood out from the rest of its bright yellow counterparts. On the second floor was what looked like a peephole into sultry hell, the red wallpaper a sure representation of fire. Affected by the strong liquor now running through the man’s warm blood, he felt in the window what he felt in the flame. And suddenly he found something else dancing.
In her room, a girl stood facing a mirror, her exposed reflection staring back at her. She stood naked but the light that bounced off her reddening walls seemed to clothe her, shading the lines she had found fault it. They are quite nice, she thought, sliding her matted palms over her own breasts; they felt like small malleable hills. A breeze flew in through her window and she felt a shiver, the thin hair on her skin rising. She shot a glance towards the night—darkness. From well inside her cozy cave, she could not make out the streets, nor the people, nor the sky beginning to show the onset of rain.
From beneath his lowered hat, the man outside had set his eyes on the girl in the window, following her as he did the flame. He felt her warmth reaching him despite the distance and suddenly the night was colder and the bar, although brimming with people, felt empty. He looked down the street once more, and dropped his cigarette where he stood, letting the breeze roll it off the curb and let it die, alone. He put his hands in his pocket and began to walk.
The girl stood looking at herself, turning slightly at times, angling her hips, watching the way her form changed, like clay in the hands of a skilled sculpture. She needed hands like that, to mold her curves, to make them feel as though they were once greatly worked on. Finally, she sighed and turned away, approaching the window. She knelt over to see the street, and found no one, the bar across from her building sat in a deceiving silence despite the movement within. She backed from the window and gliding towards her mirror, she paused in front of a table lamp, which cast her shadow onto the red walls. Again she examined herself, in a different form now, but a sudden uneasiness crept into the pit of her stomach. She jumped, her breasts rising then falling in one swift wave, when the doorbell rang, hitting a long droned out key, as though someone had fallen asleep pressing the buzzer.
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