I see her every evening. Sitting by the window staring back at me, but I dont think she sees me. I don’t think she sees anything at all. But I have no way of confirming.
She sits by idly watching, waiting. I wonder every evening as I walk by, what does she thinks of? Is there a baby at home, dying slowly now that it is born? Is there a husband somewhere who beats her? I wonder if there is something that violent and dark that goes on in her mind.
Or has she lost all hope. What are the things left in her life? Nothing. What does she dream of? Nothing. She has no desires, everything came too easily to her? No, nothing ever did arrive. Life ushered in like a beast, blowing through the doors, bellowing at its arrival but nothing else ever did arrive. Life was an incident she never speaks of.
Or does she think of something so mundane that it is a waste of my time? Does she think of the money earned, the money spent, the countless valuable plastic things she bought with them, the girls of her neighbouhood, the boys in her building. Does she think of the men she passes by on roads, of women chattering in open bar nights?
Or does she think of the man at home, how dry the love is, how it is the same fuck over and over again that they don’t even do it anymore. Does she know that he goes to the office and jerks off in shady bathrooms thinking of women who don’t even look like his fantasy girl. He just does it, he needs to. Just fuck.
Does she have any children? Are they thinking of her? Or did she let their uncle play with them and now they hate her. They want her to suffer in indifference. There is no remedy to the pain of the heart and they know it. She can’t feel it. She has no soul.
Is her life so dramatic? But I have no way of confirming.
I only see one dreadful end of this story. I only see one definite end of this tale.
I walk by quietly.