Woman inside the Window

She is two stories up, centered and framed inside the white stucco building. Two windows, close as eyes, hold the image of her as she moves her arm along the length of the ironing board, dragging the iron from one window into the next, stopping, lifting, beginning again. Rotting wood holds the scene together, is the crumbling final barrier the warm air from the street must pass through before stepping inside—there is no glass, no screen, no restraint. The woman could reach her hand through, from inside to outside, and, if it were raining, collect a wet pool in her palm, tilt the water out, and dry her hand in the blue curtains. The curtains hang listless next to her, stretching long shadows against the hardwood floor the woman stands upon, barefoot, touching and smoothing the scarlet fabric draped across her board. The sun moves in, pools inside the fabric, reflects light. Is it an evening gown? Satin? Has it been worn before?

From the street, I wonder at this woman who is ironing above me. I am walking home from a bookstore, past dark-mouthed garages, the shadowed entrances of buildings, restaurants. The street is still, the day slumped between late morning and early afternoon. Clouds pass over the sun, throwing shadows over this building, the ones next to it, myself, and also her arms as they pass over and over the red fabric. It seems unreal, like a clip pulled from a black-and-white film shot on the streets of a small European town. Another woman in another window, ironing her husband’s shirt, calling out to him, or her child, to come inside. Secondary characters never to be developed beyond their windows, never to be illumined with color.

The woman lifts her arm, as white as a shell, and moves the iron. She is engulfed in color, her sea-green walls, blue curtains (one pulled into a loose knot), and the dirty white waves of the building’s stucco. The color is so rich it could’ve been painted on. Possibly, this is a work of art.

And if it were, how would I explain the absence of her head in the picture? The viewer’s perspective is limited, as I am standing on the sidewalk looking up, and from this perspective, her throat and head are cut off by the window. Because of this, the viewer is struck with a sting of curiosity. She wants to know more. Who is that woman in the window? Is she lovely or plain? I envision her as lovely. Her breasts form two full crescents on her navy blue dress, and her arms are slim and soft, and her sides dip in like the curve of a spoon. She must have a lovely face.

I imagine her face as round, oval, with short curly brown hair, dark eyes, and yellow dot earrings. I see her lips slightly parted, pale pink, and traces of black tea stains upon her teeth—venture that she has switched from coffee to tea in the recent past, tying to lower her caffeine intake. Perhaps she has been suffering headaches from the withdrawal; perhaps this is why the windows are open and she is standing there. She needs fresh air. She breathes in the fresh air, gains a whiff of bus exhaust. The headache pounds. She touches her forehead. Sighs.

Of course, as it stands, she is real, so perhaps it’s silly to imagine her beating head, her stained teeth. Who could know? Perhaps there is no sense in pretending at all. One must walk away, imagination unraveling, and leave it at that.

But yet, one must wonder about the scarlet cloth she is ironing, right at the window’s opening. I imagine her setting the iron to the side and lifting the blue dress she is wearing up and over and off herself in one smooth motion, her standing there for a moment, entirely nude. Her breasts are pale and heavy, with large brown nipples; her stomach fills out into a grin, and right above the ironing board, there is a flash...