The Other Woman
She blushes. Hers is of a rust, blood oxidized under taut skin. I recognize this shade, not because I can see her (she stands fifty feet away behind the window facing mine), but as I imagine this emotion to look like within.
Her first name starts and ends with the same letters of my own, although I did not know it at this time. I entered my apartment, set keys on the hook and kicked off my shoes, entered the kitchen and opened the letter I found in the mailbox. It was a tax document (a W-2 to be specific) with a figure I did not earn. When I looked at the address, I caught my eyes filling in the blanks of foreign syllables with my own. I quickly folded it back and taped the envelope closed, walked out my door blushing as I left.
I saw her blush then. Hers was of a rust, blood oxidized under taut skin. It was cold outside, her cheeks exposed. I waved and spoke a few incoherent words of greeting, apology, and farewell. I might have also given her my name and remarked the similarities with hers. (I thought this to be an interesting topic of conversation, perhaps some of the best I’d started as of late.) But she only blushed, nodded, and walked back inside. I walked back, too, feeling sheepish of the situation, entered my apartment, set keys on the hook, kicked off my shoes and entered the kitchen. That is when I looked out the window and caught her reflection across the way. It dawned on me then just how much she meant to me.
I recognize her now; I can see her through the glare. She stands with her arms bent at the elbows, palms face up, and a letter in hand. She reads and takes her time reading. I imagine she’s a fast reader, but here she takes her time. (Perhaps she’s checking for sensitive information I might have picked up myself.) She walks to a table that starts to glow where other letters are held by some memorabilia serving as a paperweight. The lamp now casts her shadow against the wall, and while I cannot see her clearly, I can imagine what sort of person would have so pure of a profile.
She’s the type of person who calls her friends on their birthdays. The calendar on her wall has them noted with their new ages and their preferred flavour of cake. When she enters a room, she holds eye contact with all. Neither intimidating nor naïve, just a glance of recognition and future invitation. She walks with ease, her posture indicating no sign of anterior pelvic tilt. She shows no sign of self-pride overcompensating for self-doubt.
She takes her time reading another letter. Her patience must be a side-effect of her profession. I imagine with that posture and sociability she must be a teacher, nurse, or possibly a veterinarian. Yes, a veterinarian. She was born and raised in a small town not far from here for nothing scared her in a job that required permanency in address.
She never moved far. Her parents call her daily and she visits them weekly. Each time, she brings with her a freshly baked loaf featuring whatever fruit is in season. She asks them about their health, their friends’ health, and their days. She shares a story from work and an update from her fiancé. (He’s out of town at this moment; he travels for work. He’s a pilot but spends most of his working hours commuting on roads.) He’s good, she says, he’s on his way home right now actually, he’s driving back in. (Oh, how our dreams forget the details of commutes.) She eats her slice.
The letter she reads is one sent to her by herself. She wrote herself a letter a few months back after she read about it in some book. But why would you write yourself a letter?, her parents asked. Well, because I haven’t anything to lose, she answered, do I?, she thought. Her life was simple, that of childhood dreams made true, and she wrote it out to herself. Perhaps if she received such words stamped and delivered to her it would help her register this life as a dream. Indeed, her life was simple, of everything she had ever dreamed of as a child. But the words she chose to describe her life made it sound distant. It was as if the story started and ended with the same letters of her life but filled in the blanks with foreign words instead of her own.
She moves the paperweight to glance at the letters. Addressed to her in a handwriting no longer hers. She does not recognize herself in the versions contained, her past dreams and current one non-aligned. They start and end with the same letters, but the blanks have been filled with foreign words. Oh, how our dreams assume a static self. In that time, I have changed, she says, my veins contain new blood, but I remain in myself how I have always been. My skin stretches over growths and wounds. When I blush, I taste rust in my cheeks.
She turns to the window which now, in the evening dark, reflects her interiors. She holds the curtains to draw them over. And here, if she’s anything like me, she stands at her window and watches me as I draw my curtains close.