The Kitchen Window

A kitchen window, in a small Brooklyn apartment, faces a brick wall, sixty feet away, belonging to the building next door. A fire escape, in the lower right corner, sometimes holds a chair.

The window is, by absolute measurements, small. The window is, by absolute measurements, on a wall that does not, in any obvious way, look out on anything. The brick wall is a brick wall. The fire escape is a fire escape. The chair, when the chair is there, is a chair.

The window is, by other measurements, one of the nicer things in the apartment.

The apartment has been occupied, by a woman, for six and a half years. The window has been stood at, by the woman, in the six and a half years, more often than the woman can, by the woman's own description, count.

The light

The light comes in, in the morning, through the kitchen window. The light comes in, in the morning, at an angle.

The light comes in, in the morning, across the counter. The counter holds, in a small wooden bowl, the fruit the woman has not yet eaten. The light comes in, in the morning, across the stove. The stove holds, in the cooler months, a kettle. The light comes in, in the morning, across the floor. The floor holds, in the summer, no one — the cat the woman does not have would, if the woman had a cat, presumably lie on the floor.

The light comes in, in the afternoon, at a different angle. The light comes in, in the afternoon, across the table, where, in better weather, the woman eats. The light comes in, in the afternoon, across the chair, where, on most evenings, the woman sits, with a book.

The angles of the light have been learned, by the woman, in the years the woman has lived in the apartment. The light is, in the morning, the color of butter. The light is, in the afternoon, the color of honey. The light is, in the evening, briefly, the color of nothing in particular.

What is seen

The brick wall is seen, when the window is looked through.

The brick wall is, by most descriptions, an ugly brick wall. The brick wall is, by most descriptions, the kind of brick wall that real-estate listings describe as exposed brick, in the hope that no one will notice that the brick has not been cleaned, by most descriptions, since 1923.

The brick wall has, by the woman's own description, been learned.

Four windows are on the wall, by the woman's own count. The window on the top floor holds, by the woman's own description, an older woman, who waters, in the mornings, a small plant on the sill. The window on the second floor holds, by the same description, a couple, who argues, in the evenings, in what the woman thinks is Portuguese. The window on the ground floor held, until last year, a man, who kept a small dog, who barked, at four o'clock every afternoon, for reasons that were, eventually, never explained.

The people in the windows have been watched, by the woman, in the years the woman has lived in the apartment. The people have been watched cooking. The people have been watched arguing. The people have been watched, occasionally, standing, like the woman, at their own windows, looking, like the woman, at the brick.

The neighbor

The neighbor on the fire escape has been on the fire escape since May.

The neighbor is, by the woman's own estimate, in her sixties. The neighbor has short grey hair. The neighbor has a small dog, in a canvas bag. The neighbor sits, on the fire escape, in a wooden chair, painted, somewhat inexpertly, blue. The neighbor reads, mostly. The neighbor drinks, from a small metal cup, something the woman has decided is coffee.

The neighbor has not, in the months the neighbor has been on the fire escape, been spoken to, by the woman. The neighbor has been watched, by the woman, with what the woman has, in the months since, decided is a kind of affection.

The neighbor is, by the woman's own description, alone in the way the woman is alone — by circumstance, more than by choice. The neighbor has, by the same description, a small life in a small apartment, with a small dog and a wooden chair and a view of the woman's kitchen window, from which the neighbor has, occasionally, watched the woman cook.

An understanding has, by the woman's own description, been reached, between the woman and the neighbor. The understanding is that the woman and the neighbor are both, on most days, in their kitchens, doing the small things. The understanding is that the woman and the neighbor are both, on most days, watching each other, through the windows, doing the small things. The understanding is that neither the woman nor the neighbor is going to mention this.

The cat that is not there

A cat is not, in the apartment. A cat has been thought about, by the woman, in the years the woman has lived in the apartment. A cat has been thought about, in particular, because the woman has, on most days, the time, the space, and the quiet a cat would need.

A cat has not been gotten, by the woman. A cat has not been gotten because the woman has, in the last few years, decided that the woman is not, in fact, a cat person. A cat has not been gotten, in particular, after the woman spent an afternoon, in the company of friends, with the friends' cat, and noticed, by the end of the afternoon, that the woman was, in some small way, tired.

The kitchen window, in the absence of a cat, has the light coming in across an empty floor.

The empty floor has been liked, by the woman, in the years the woman has lived in the apartment. The empty floor has been liked, in particular, for the way the light comes in, in the morning, across the floor, and the way the floor is, in the afternoon, warm, and the way the floor is, in the evening, the color of the rest of the apartment.

The cat that is not there would, the woman is sure, lie on the warm floor. The cat that is not there would, the woman is sure, watch the neighbor. The cat that is not there would, the woman is sure, be a particular kind of company.

The company is, for the moment, absent. The window is, for the moment, occupied.

What has been decided

The kitchen window is, by the woman's own description, the center of the apartment.

The kitchen is, by absolute measurements, the smallest room. The kitchen window is, by absolute measurements, the smallest window. The kitchen looks out on, by absolute measurements, the ugliest view.

The kitchen window is, by other measurements, the room in which the most time is spent. The kitchen window is, by the same measurements, the place the woman stands, in the morning, with coffee. The kitchen window is, by the same measurements, the place the woman stands, in the evening, after dinner. The kitchen window is, by the same measurements, the place the woman stands, when the woman is, for one reason or another, between things.

The kitchen window has, in the years the woman has lived in the apartment, become a kind of friend. The kitchen window is, in the abstract, the place the woman is, when the woman is not anywhere else.

The window is, on most mornings, going to be stood at. The window is, on most mornings, going to be used to watch the older woman water the plant. The window is, on most mornings, going to be used to watch the light come in, across the floor.

The window is, on most mornings, going to be enough.