The Things I See Out My Kitchen Window

There is a young couple living across the breezeway from me. I went to my kitchen sink to stand there and eat a cheese sandwich – what, with a Grey Goose martini I considered dinner tonight – and saw them preparing their meal.

I had seen them before of course, but only from the knees down. They both have beautiful legs. And two darling cats – a grey and a red tabby. As of today, their Levelors have been realigned to reveal some more of their lives – their faces, torsos, and kitchen counter to be exact.

Tonight for dinner they had fajitas. Chicken with vegetables from what I surmised, but definitely fajitas. I saw the tortillas with melted cheddar on two plates on their counter. Their counter, just like mine, but with a wooden wine rack, pot full of wooden spoons, and a coffee maker. I saw them discuss the distribution of the pan of fajitas over the tortillas with cheese, and then the actual distribution. She was in charge of the plates while he was in charge of the contents of the pan. With the cats’ tails curling around their legs (now I could see the tails, but not the cats,) they loaded their plates and headed for the couch and their evening TV.

As I watched this pantomime for a brief 20 – 30 seconds, I noticed what they wore. They’re both fit, she with a petite build and lovely thighs I would kill for, and he with athletically broad shoulders. But, as they say, “everyone looks the same in the dark,” so too do everyone look the same in their leisure clothes. The working class generally return home and can barely get through the doorway without beginning to strip. I generally reach for a pair of North Face yoga pants and an organic cotton tee. It’s nice to know that my neighbors’ leisure-wear taste is much the same as my own. He wore black sweat pants that had obviously been laundered to a dark grey, and a shapeless white t-shirt that had its label sticking out of the neckline. She wore knee-high tube socks, a short, flippy chemise with some sort of a print, and an oversized green sweatshirt. Probably his former sweatshirt. These neighbors have an intimacy most marriages crave, and yet I don’t think they’re married. Somehow, there’s still an uncertainty in their movements, or a hesitation in how they discuss the distribution of their fajitas that makes me realize that rings have not yet been exchanged.

I thought of my sister's apartment in Paris one summer. Her windows looked out over the open space at the center of the building. One of the neighbors opposite was an old woman who would beat the summer heat by doing her cooking in her bra. I remember how we would giggle as we tried not to spy on her. It was hopeless - there is something about a neighbor in deshabille that absolutely compells one to watch.

From my sink, their window is the size of a small envelope, or a postcard - such a small space to see their lives. I wonder what they think of my window sill – totally blank and unrevealing except for the Murano glass fishbowl my parents gave to me after a trip to Venice. Living on the top floor as I do, I find myself at an advantage as I realize that they will never really see me in my leisure wear.

Image from Getty Images 

Comments

[deb barshafsky]

very nice post