Closed curtains behind the windows. Again.
Binoculars put away. Bedlinen pulled back. Shirt unbuttoned and taken off. Shoes kicked under the bed. Socks halfway reached for, then given up. Pants on.
The rustling of getting under covers. Heavy sighs. Rolling back and forth not finding a good position. Ending up on back, an arm slung on the empty bedside.
Closed eyes. Snapping open, staring at the ceiling, the window…then closed again. Sighing, then slow rhytmical breathing.
He sits in his windowsill with his binoculars. The curtains are pulled back down there on the other side. He can see a figure moving. Steam from the oven. Shes cooking. She stirs her casserole, shakes her hand above it abit, then reaches for something in the cupboard and misses, trying again, reaching further, her back beautifully stretched. Then checking the label, nodding to herself.
She puts placemats on the table. Two plates. Knives and forks. Glasses for water, and a jug with lemonslices floating atop inside. Cutting bread, making cute little triangles, placing it on the table near the candle. It needs to be lit.
Someone enters. Blackhaired head peeks inside the kitchen, hurriedly met in a hug and a kiss. He looks familiar.
The figures in the window sits down over the food. Heads thrown back in laughter, sharing of news, gesticulating hands with forks waiving in the air.
He keeps watching them, as sun sets, and has still not left his windowsill when everything in the kitchen is quiet.
A lone figure suddenly appears, right before lowering of binoculars. Its the man. He turns his face up towards the lonely man in the window, and grins widely. A slow nod, as to a question, and he is gone….
A strangled moan in the dark night. Gasping, as the sweaty body gets up, hurrying to the window. Everything is silent. Shocked, fumbling towards the bathroom, he grabs the sink to wash the face. Lifting face to the mirror. Searching. Asking.
A huge grin appears in the mirror, and a nod.
Yes.
Katia Johnsen 