The Window Man

There was a man cleaning the windows outside at work today.
I could see him from my desk. I spent a minute disregarding
his presence until I could no longer take it. I put my shoes
on and walked over to the window, where from my side I stood
and sternly stared at him. I watched his focus, splashing
cleaner on the window and then meticulously running the
rubber blade of his squeegee down the glass. It felt like
math. His eyes following his actions, until he caught site of
me. He stared back at me. We couldn’t speak to each other if
we tried, not with words. But I stared out at him, behind him
some comforting green screen of blue sky. It was a cookie
cutter blue sky. The kind of sky that almost feels beautiful
because it’s existed in every movie ever. The kind of sky that
almost feels beautiful because you drew it in crayon so many
times as a child. He remained staring before this manufactured
sky, chewing his chewing gum, and I stared back. I watched the
window man as he blew his chewing gum into a big giant pink
bubble and filled it with war stories. He filled it with big,
big fish and the story about the one that got away. He filled
it with the song that played the day he met the love of his
life and the clouds that rolled over the day she passed away.
I had nothing to say back to him except to raise my right
hand, as if I had been exalted by his honesty, as if to say
to him, “Is this not love? The way that we understand that
we are not the same, and that truly we just may never actually
hear each other, but still to say I hear you?” I raised my
hand to say I hear you and he raised his hand to say the same
to me, and pulling the pink bubble from the tip of his lips
he pinched it and floated off into the crayon sky and I
went to gather my things and leave work early because I knew
for sure that this day had nothing else for me.