fourteen : isolation
she sits by the window, watching. her breath fogs the glass in a semicircle, obscuring all but her mouth in an opaque haze. people pass. she has her favourites. at six fifteen, the jogger stops on the corner and waits for the lights to change, bouncing on the balls of her feet and rolling her neck from side to side. sometimes alone, sometimes with a less enthusiastic man wheezing along a few feet behind her. she wonders what the jogger does when she gets home. if she goes straight to work, or relaxes with a hot mug of tea. if she still has the dog—the glitter-eyed husky that used to bound ahead of her and wait at the corner, tongue lolling, even without a leash.
a few pedestrians glance in at her from under their hoods and umbrellas. it’s too early.
at half-past eight, the school kids slouch past. the youngest one, now the tallest, no longer hangs back from the group. he towers over the others, speaking in a quiet voice that somehow demands respect. they listen and laugh and shove each other around. one of the boys slips on a pile of wet leaves and stumbles onto the road, and she lurches forward in panic, hitting her head hard against the glass. the thud is loud, and the kids all turn to look at her. a pale fuzzy forehead haphazardly placed over a narrow jaw, the lips curving down slightly at the edges. she tries to lift her eyes and smile at them, but her head spins. the kids run down the road, some looking back at the stranger with her distorted face pressed to the glass. she worries that they will change their walking route.
it’s still too early. time drags on.
finally—ten minutes late—at nine-forty, the mailman arrives on his bike. he slows, and her heart races. by the mailbox he stoops and waves at her through the window, then pushes forward without leaving anything. a rush of leaves tumbles over the damp pavement.
she rolls back from the window.
not today.
