[I have written very few stories in prose; I wrote this one sometime between 1985 and 1987, I think. I thought of it the other day, so I thought I’d post it.]

Windows, Lights

The light shining through the window left a soft cross on the blanket, wrinkled by the bodies beneath it. Across the street, he could see someone sitting in a chair, reading what appeared to be a rather large book, or rather, skimming it in an obviously distracted manner. The person had sat down only a few minutes before, just as he had woken up and looked out the window, and twice already had stood up before abruptly sitting down again. The reader's light seemed insufficient to his taste; he would have liked to turn on another lamp: "Would you like more light?"

He wasn't sure why he had woken: he could remember no dreams, and no sounds came from the street or the building, except for her regular breathing next to him. He could feel the arm he was leaning on protesting, but he didn't want to move, for fear of waking her. The person across the street was certainly worth watching. The dim outline could have been either a man or a woman, though he suspected it was a woman, by a certain softness in her movements. Or was it that? Something suggested it; he wasn't wholly sure what.

She had put the book down and was leaning on her arm as well. He could feel his own throbbing mutely in sympathy. There was something forced in her stillness. Once more she got up abruptly and left the section of the room he could see. He could almost hear a door opening and shutting; he slipped out of bed as carefully as he could and walked to the window. The moon was full, and now his own shadow wrinkled across the bed. The empty street below was lit by only one streetlight; the one under the woman's window was dark. Then she stepped out into the street, heading, he was sure, toward the park.

Without thinking, he put on his clothes (very quietly) and took his shoes and keys as he headed for the door. He had to be quick, or she would be gone, so he took the stairs down rather than the elevator. A minute later, he opened his building's front door in time to see her turn left around the corner. He walked briskly, trying to be as quiet as possible; he still had a sense of not wanting to wake the woman in his bed as much as of not wanting to scare the woman he was following.

As he rounded the corner, he saw her on the corner of the boulevard, waving down a taxi. She climbed in, drove away. He walked down to the corner and stood there, watching the taxis go by. At the bus stop he sat down on the bench and looked at the stoplights. The green light on one was broken; it hung there dully until it shone yellow, then red. Then it went dark again. Across the street was a row of apartment buildings. In some of the windows, lights were still on.