I was standing by the window. He was standing by the window. I opened the window. The man opened the window. I noticed the man opening the window. A woman passing by noticed the man opening the window, noticed him not in the broad sense but in the most specific sense, the angle at which his hand took the frame for leverage, the weave of the material of his sweater, the glint of the pin on his breast (a canary, and then a splash of musical notes above it, connected), the interest he seemed to have in the play of ego across his face and the simultaneous suppression of that ego, the poke-protrusion of keys within the pocket of his too-tight pants. We populated the story. We never met. We went to dinner at different times. We drank the same gin and smoked the same cigarettes. I drifted off to sleep before I did, wondering whether I had closed the window or seen it closed or both.
©2020 Ben Greenman/Stupid Ideas
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