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Prose

A View from the Window

We’ve seen a lot together, over the past few days. We’ve seen the way the light on the apartment building opposite slants from right to left in the morning, and from left to right in the afternoon. We’ve seen the queues outside the bakery in the morning and the hardy little huddles of customers braving the cold, determined to consume their coffees and pastries outside. Because sun is sun, and sun at this time of year needs to be sat in.

Or, actually, I’m more likely to have seen that than the Rider, because this is all going on behind the Rider’s head and the Rider doesn’t move. She’s more likely to have seen the little old ladies shuffling towards the pharmacy, stopping to draw an N95 mask out of their handbags with a wizened hand. But we’ve both seen the people stopping to brush their fingertips along the flowers outside the shop that makes up the third point of the triangle, and the dogs that lift their legs against the bedding plants and the owners who hope that no-one has seen.

At night, the Rider sees things that I can only hear. While my shutters are drawn down, she sees the teenagers and young men and women stumbling towards her, stopping to set their half-empty drinks on her wide, high base and to yell their goodbyes at each other. Goodbyes which, at 3am, I feel far too intimately involved in.

However, the Rider can also feel what I can’t. She can feel the sun and the breeze on her face.

By annaputsover

Translator and English tutor

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