Gifts of the Storm
When the storms roll in and the winds blow in the right direction I'm given a glimpse into new lives.
After a long period of sunshine here in the Netherlands, we’ve had a few weeks of storms, gusting winds, and rain in all its forms. Naturally, my attention has fallen on different influences. This story stems from an idea that has followed me since I moved here (the Netherlands is a country of people living on show) and I’ve already attempted a couple of narrative with the glowing windows at the heart. This is the most successful to date.
My balcony is a two-by-one-metre rectangle, with a dull steel bannister separating me and the three-storey freefall. I grow a sad patch of mint in an old terracotta pot in one corner and sit in another, and it’s where I smoke in the evenings. When I sit here in the darkness of night and glow of life, time warps, and so do thoughts. When it’s windy, the purple willow - sitting in the middle of our courtyard - rocks, and I’m given flashing glimpses of the couple living their lives opposite. Sometimes they’re lying lifelessly on their sofa, curled into positions only comfortable with years of practice; their limbs have grown accustomed to each other, fitting together like pieces of the same puzzle. Other times the willow sways to reveal them dining together as if their small pine table belongs to the finest restaurant in town. Now and again, I catch them alone, reading, working, eating, sleeping or crying. In a way, their lives are representative of the town, a place that puts on a show without asking an audience to come and watch. Everyone here, from the young couple across the way to the pensioners in their apartments and the families fighting on the ground floor, have little care for watching eyes. But the couple across the way are the two I see the most. It’s a matter of sight lines, nicotine, the wind, and primarily, a lack of curtains.
Before the couple moved in, an old lady lived there, she owned curtains and wooden shutters too, but the older she got, the less she used them.
I can't pinpoint the exact day the young couple replaced her, but they've been behind the swaying willow for two years, give or take a month. The lady before them kept squawking birds in a cage. Some afternoons they became agitated by the winds that danced with the willow and squawk twice as loud. When she moved, I wasn’t the only neighbour to sigh in relief. Even a noisy neighbour would have been better than the birds; at least people alternate the noises they make. Birds do not. And if they do, they swap between two closely related squawks. But the couple turned out to be quieter than most. I hardly heard them move in, and only every few days does music escape from open windows and doors. Not too long after they settled down, we had a stormy patch. It was then that I noticed their habit of living on display.
Their softly lit living room looks warm and glows with the love of a happy relationship. They look at each other and smile without seeming to say a word. It's the sort of relationship anyone would like to experience, but I've only had the chance to observe. I notice them a day later as the thirst of summer is quenched. They are in the bathroom, one window to the right of their living room: yet another glowing square. Both are leaning over a sink, letting the foaminess of their toothpaste fall from their bottom lips. Then, the guy, a dark-haired figure with a squared frame, sprays his mouthful over the mirror. Laughter cripples them for a few minutes, and I share their joy, coughing on the smoke in my throat.
I can’t be sure, but I think it was then in that moment of silliness when she first noticed me, or at the very least, the orange glow of my cigarette.
She's alone the next day. It’s around ten thirty; the sun has retired, leaving only the faintest tint of blue lingering below the patchy colourless clouds. She is where I find her most often, lounging on her sofa with a book glued to her hands. Out of the two, she's the more fidgety, changing position every few minutes. She mindlessly moves through a yoga class that replaces breaths with chapters. Their apartment is positioned too far away for me to see the title, and I’m not one to watch others with binoculars, so I assume she’s reading my favourites: The Alchemist, The Island of the Missing Tree and Pinball. Although it’s raining, it’s July and humid, and she opens the window to acquire her share of the cooler air the rains carry. It squeals on its hinges, echoing around the courtyard like the tormented birds used to. I can’t help but look; again, I see her looking back. But I can’t be sure, shadows cast doubt in my mind, and I refrain from a neighbourly wave. Instead, I take a slow drag on my cigarette. After opening the window, she returns to her book, this time finding a new position: laying flat on her stomach, propped up on her elbows. But that’s not what pulls at my attention. Laying down, she’s twisted the loose oversized T-shirt; now it’s tight against her skin. It’s the first time I’ve felt the prick of attraction gnawing in my chest. But my soul won’t allow me to stare in peace; shame accompanies my excitement like a best friend keeping the other out of harm's way. I stub out my orange dot and head inside.
The next evening he’s back by her side, and she’s wearing something more than his hand-me-downs. They’re cooking, dancing to old salsa music spinning on an antique turntable below a window. It’s a wholesome scene, but the winds aren't blowing strong enough to give me a clear view, so for me, it's a scene living in my imagination. The winds know what is for my eyes and what belongs to them alone. Besides, their kitchen is hidden at the back of their apartment, and with my elevation, I’m only privy to the movement of their feet. They’re both stepping in time, powered by the beat rather than their energy. I start counting, waiting to see who falls out of time first. She does, but before I've managed another count, he has her back like she never left. Four bars step by before I see one pair of feet vanish lifted out of sight and into fantasy with the rest. I wonder what it must be like to cook together, to dance; to be so deeply in love that you can be swept up at any moment. I stump out the orange glow and go inside to make myself dinner.
Another evening passes without sight of either of them. They’ve gone out or are hiding in the backroom, trying to save electricity. Without them in view, my balcony feels colder, the wind rougher, and the rain more tenacious. I smoke three back-to-back and retire for the night.
The following evening, she’s alone again, wearing the same baggy T-shirt. Now I see it’s a tour shirt with the typical index of venues listed on the back. But like the books she reads, the font is too small, and the shadows are too many for me to identify which band is responsible. She’s not reading tonight. Chatter replaces chapters, and a blue light from her laptop glows persistently on her face. It’s the first time I’ve seen her with this much clarity. She’s pretty in all the ways a woman can be. Soft eyes, slim cheeks, lips designed to kiss and pout. She’s animated, talking in eager outbursts and fidgeting mercilessly. I wonder who’s on the other end and if they’re as excited as she looks. I wonder if there’s another like her, lounging in her boyfriend's clothes on a sofa that’s on full display to her neighbours. And if so, is there another like me, watching from a balcony between the sways of a purple willow? If they're calling from this city, there’s a good chance.
The orange dot is closing in on my fingertips; I can feel the heat building when she stops my heart. Without warning, she's on her feet, realigning the laptop and beginning to dance for the camera. The band shirt becomes a dress, the blue light her stage and her movement insatiable. Feet, hips, and thighs move together like a cresting wave breaking on the shore, sending ripples running the length of her dress. Just as the willow sways for me to see her, her dress flows for me to see her too. But this new view feels cheated: I'm not supposed to see the black lace. Just as I lit the second orange dot, she returned to the sofa, almost covering herself again. I’m heading inside when she looks my way; this time there’s no doubt in my mind.
Music drifts from their open balcony door, a sign they’re home, cooking, dancing, or both. But there’s no wind tonight, so even though I can see the glow through the thin foliage, that’s it.
Two more nights pass in the same pattern; the winds have retired, halving my senses. I’m left with scent and sound. I’m sitting in the same chair, but this time with no orange dot glowing at the end of my fingers, at least not yet. I want to smell what’s simmering on the stove. I smell cumin, onion, and garlic. But alone, they don’t make a meal. I lit a dot, relying on my ears. The usual soundtrack drifts out of their open door, with a lively drum beat, staccato trumpets and Spanish mixing sensually. All at once, the music is outdone, replaced by a scream. It’s a happy one, full of surprise and joy.
Another storm's waiting to roll in the next day. I spend it hoping it’ll continue into the night, and it does. By the time the sky has faded to black, and before the rain has started, the willow is in full swing; dancing left, then right, forward, then back. Its steps give me a clear sight again, and it doesn’t take long before I discover the origin of the screams the night before. They’re both on the balcony, sipping tea or coffee from steaming mugs and chatting with someone on the other end of a phone. The words “surprise”, “ring”, and “wedding” cross the distance between us, and their smiles do the rest. I want to shout ‘congratulations!’ But I don’t. My dot fades in its ashtray with a smile pulling my lips north. If a newly engaged couple doesn’t warm your heart, then what’s the point of having one? Okay, maybe that’s a stretch; there are some engaged couples that you look at with a sense of doomed inevitability, but these two weren’t that type. Their love is the purest - let’s dance as we cook - form. In their case, the only certainties are the tears rolling down cheeks at the sight of their first dance.
Summer returned in the night while I slept, and it intended to stay for a little while. The air is thick and humid, it's glued in place, banishing any morsel of breeze. When evening arrives, I’m still smiling as I sit down on my chair and roll my cigarette in my fingers. I wonder how many people they've rang in the hours since the scream. Who do you need to ring? Family and friends? But who gets the call, and who's surprised when they see the photos blinking on a blue screen: a feature of modern marriage as inevitable as the tears. But just as the thoughts circle my mind, I see something I haven't before. Two levels above their apartment, his dark hair and square shoulders are framed by another glowing square. It's the same face that spat toothpaste over the mirror after laughter broke its composure. He's dancing again, wrapping his hands around a different waist. This one is just as thin, but her steps are awkward and stiff, spending most of their time out of it rather than swimming along. My stomach drops three stories to the ground, and rain falls in a mist dampening my face with its tears. Is this what happens to love, even in its purest form, with late-night laughter, dinner dates and domestic dancing? No, the winds answer me, pulling another into view. Rounded shoulders replace the squared; this dancer has lighter hair and less sure steps. His dark hair waits close by, counting, watching and teaching. Then two more figures join the frame, and I'm happy to see her. All four are dancing now; the couple is mesmerising next to the new faces. I pull another dot out of the pack and lit it. As the tip begins to glow, I spot three more faces; they're watching the couple's feet, trying to remember the sequence. One of the faces, a woman I've passed in the street a hundred times in the past few years, has her eyes closed. She's feeling instead of watching, building her own sequence with each passing beat. Before I know it, I'm nodding along, swaying my shoulders like the winds rock the willow. Then the couple comes to a halt, they've noticed me swaying along. She opens a window; its hinges have been oiled more recently than hers. Music escapes through the gap, it's even more tantalising now.
"Come over!" She calls. "We are teaching."
I'm at a loss for words, I have so many questions. Had she known I was watching all this time? Has she been aware of me since the start, since the day they were crippled by laughter? Can you teach someone to dance like that even if they have no one to dance with? But I don't ask any of them.
"Which apartment?" I shout across. Just like that, the glowing windows and the couple that lives happily within them moved from my imagination into my reality. Twelve of us meet up every week, and I've even found my own dance partner. And although we haven’t found the steps and sways easy to master, we have found love. It just goes to show every glowing window has lessons to teach, and behind them, real lives exist. Ones ready to answer you when you shout across the courtyard, invite them to dinner or learn to dance.
A whole year after my first lesson, I'm smoking another dot. Some things never change. But this time I'm not on my balcony, I'm leaning against a stone wall, watching the sunset, wiping my eyes dry. Their first dance was all I thought it would be.
Love, Luke.
P.S join the chat and get extra insight into your favourite stories. Or connect with other subscribers. We all have a story to tell.