Windows Between Worlds

            What was his fascination with houses? With windows? He could not be certain himself. All he knew was that ever since he was a small boy, he loved houses. Not to build, but to look at. To admire. He never became an architect like his parents urged him to.

            “If you love houses so much, why don’t you build them?” his mother had asked. He had only shaken his head. “Not to build, but to see. They’re two very different things.”

             Instead, he became a data analyst, crunching numbers every day, compiling various studies. He likes it, yes, but there is no room for creativity. There is no room to daydream, to imagine. With numbers, everything is precise and logical.

             When he comes back home after a long day at work, he always goes for a walk. Not just anywhere, but to certain neighbourhoods. Once a week he makes the commute by the tube to upscale neighbourhoods, like Knightsbridge or Belgravia. He is willing to take half an hour to get there and just walk. Why does he do this? Why would anyone ride on a train for half an hour just to get off and walk? He has a big imagination, he knows. His fascination with houses has carried into adulthood, much to his bemusement. When he walks past flats and houses, he cannot help but imagine the lives of the inhabitants. He creates background stories for all of them, envisioning the people moving from room to room, chatting about the events of the day, smiling at each other. He likes admiring the houses the best of all. The houses in the richer, more upscale neighbourhoods are fancy and luxurious; they are a far cry from the small flat he lives in. As he walks, he tries to unobtrusively peek into the windows to see what luxury looks like. Fancy, spotless rooms, perfectly colour-coordinated artwork on the walls and furniture all around, he imagines. It would look just like a room from a catalogue. He has not been lucky enough to see inside the other world, though. He would cause alarm if he ever tried to peep in a window, for neighbourhoods like those condemn prying actions. But that has never deterred him. Each week, he keeps trying to get a glimpse of the other world. Just a brief glimpse.

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             He waited on the platform as the tube pulled into the station. Today is the day he walks in Belgravia. He is always thrilled when this day comes. His imagination can run wild – he can indulge himself in silly fantasies. It draws him away from his mundane schedule and from all those numbers. He likes his job, but there is only so much excitement to be gleaned from calculating numbers every day.

             The tube train pulled into the station, and he edged towards the automatic doors. It is rush hour, of course. Everyone was trying to get home. He has never been satisfied with his home. Of course, it is a decent flat, cosy and warm, but living in London is pricey, and he had to settle for the first flat he could get. He doesn’t deny that there are more gorgeous homes out there, which is why he chooses to walk in rich neighbourhoods once a week.

             He managed to find a seat and sighed in relief as he slipped into it. He had a bit of a journey to get to his walking destination and he did not want to prematurely wear out his feet. The car soon filled up, and he was surrounded by people. Most of them had headphones on, listening to music. Others looked at their phones, while a few read a book. He simply preferred to close his eyes. It was his way of meditation, a type of catharsis to let all his worries go. He leant against the walls of the car and crossed his arms. The chatter and music around him faded away, and he was left to his own thoughts. Who was he going to see today? Would windows be conveniently left open for him to peek through? Would a kind tenant invite him in for a cup of tea, perhaps? This last thought sneaked into his mind, even though he knew it would never become reality.

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             He dozed lightly, on and off, but he was never fully asleep. He was aware of his surroundings so he didn’t miss his stop. He got up and exited the car, heading for the stairs. He had only been to Belgravia a few times, but he knew which neighbourhood he wanted to explore today. He soon approached the immaculate houses he had been waiting to see all day. He was about to enter a new world, the world of elite London society, the world of the rich and glamorous.

             He stepped onto the pavement, staring up at the tall houses. A small tingling feeling spread throughout his body. He was excited – no, elated – to see the houses. His fascination with houses was inexplicable, just like the bubbly, happy feeling he got when he saw them. No one would ever understand but him. And he was fine with that.

             He walked slowly so as to absorb the magnificence and savour the beauty. The organised, tidy beauty. The carefully carved stonework on the facades took his breath away, and the manicured bushes and plants sent surges of joy through his body. He imagined a Lord and Lady Somebody living here, stretching out their legs on plush white sofas, drinking a glass of wine. Then they would pad across the soft, matching carpet to set down their glasses on the glossy piano. Perhaps they would play a piano sonata. Mozart? Beethoven? Chopin?

             He stopped at one house, which had colourful flowers outside, perfectly arranged in matching flowerpots. The windows were open, the curtains drawn away from the window. He stepped towards it, trying to peek inside. The black iron fences in front of the house blocked him from getting a closer look, so he let them press into his stomach as stared at the window. He could see inside! It was just as he imagined it: a room straight out of a catalogue. It was opulent, but it matched the house perfectly. A young woman about his age entered the room with a book in her hand. She was wearing a flowing white dress, and her hair was done up in a loose bun. Loose strands blew gently around her face as the breeze wafted in from the open window. She moved about the room, and he imagined that she was humming to herself. In another life, she could have been his wife. They could have had a family, could have lived in a house just like this. He could have been staring outside the window, instead of staring in. Maybe there would be another fellow like him, wistfully standing outside to catch a glimpse of the unattainable world of wealth and glory. There were so many things that could have been.

             The woman moved gracefully towards the window. The white dress glowed in the soft evening sun as she looked out. She saw him standing there and gave him a small smile. Was it an invitation, perhaps? His chance to enter the other world? He smiled back, and their eyes met. Then she reached out to grab the handles on the windows and closed them. The curtains fell to cover the window as she removed their sashes. She jerked them close, and her face vanished along with the room. He stood there dumbly for a few minutes, then slowly turned away.

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                                                           The End