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There are some events in this world which recur with such staggering predictability that they become physical landmarks in time. The sun will rise, of course, and set. The mail will arrive, rain or shine. The British will drink their tea, as is their existential mandate. The cows will come in and be milked. At dawn the birds will sing, in every place where there are birds. And each and every day, from the hours of three to six p.m., from a threadbare window seat cushion in her modest third-floor apartment, Emma Rose Davidson will sit alone to watch the world go by.
She chose the apartment specifically because of the window, actually. The third floor is perfect, in her mind, in that it is near enough to the street below to allow a clear view of the goings-on below while also being far enough from it to grant her a good deal of privacy herself. The window itself is perfect, too: an awning window, specifically, which she can prop open at the bottom, letting snippets of conversations float in while the tilt of the glass catches the sun and obscures her from view.
Emma Rose loves human interaction – the practiced ease of people walking familiar paths with familiar friends, finding joy in the drudgery of a daily rainy commute, the unbridled enthusiasm of children exploring the playground while their parents talk and watch, the quiet, careful kindling of new love as couples walk slowly home from early dates – she just loves it from a distance. Her neighbors and their guests are characters in a show to which she does not have the script.
These two gentlemen have been, as of late, her very favorite people to watch. They are the sort of characters whose predictability rivals her own. She’s gleaned from careful glances around the window’s edge that they must live in the building across the street and down the block from her own – she sees them each coming and going at regular hours, presumably headed to work somewhere. The taller one, a round-faced friendly-looking sort with cheery reddish hair and a penchant for colorful patterned jumpers, heads off in one direction with an apron slung over his shoulder – at least, she thinks it’s an apron; those details can be hard to make out from this distance, even with her skill – and the shorter one, a scrawny, uncertain-looking man with a limp, plods to the bus station with a battered laptop bag, wringing his hands as he waits and shivers in the early chill. She’s seen them leaving in the mornings as she peers between the curtains with her morning cup of Lady Grey. She’s usually seen them walking out together. Sometimes the taller one will hand his – friend? Roommate? Boyfriend? Husband? – a scarf as he leaves, or wrap it around his shoulders himself.
In the afternoons, they reconvene at the bench across the street from her house.
Lower Dunpool is, by all accounts, quite dull. This is the sort of place that exists to be mildly surprised and overly proud when its children grow up to find success in better cities. The most noteworthy thing that happens most years is the annual October pie baking competition. But it’s not bad to look at – the trees are old and generous with their shade, and the houses give the street room to breathe, standing a respectable distance apart from one another rather than crowding in all together. The playground across the street precludes any pesky housing developers from blocking her view of the farmland just down the hill. The weather is as decent as any England has on offer. She imagines that the bench between the oaks would be a sweet little place to meet with a lover or friend, if she had one. Many couples and friends do sit there, throughout the day, with arms around waists and heads on shoulders and ankles tangled together. It looks pleasant.
Not these two.
Since arriving on the scene two weeks ago, they’ve followed the same routine every day that hasn’t rained – they meet at the bench, one of them bringing supper and a thermos of tea, and sit at one end, facing one another with the meal (sandwiches, today) between them. They speak in hushed voices, seeming by turns argumentative and wistful. The taller one will reach out sometimes and clasp the shorter one’s skinny shoulder, or tuck a strand of salt-and-pepper hair behind his ear, and the shorter one will, without fail, close his eyes and go still, seeming to focus all his attention on the gesture, for as long as it lasts. Then they separate again.
Emma Rose had wondered for the first week why he never reached out in return. Clearly the tall one cared quite a bit for his friend, or partner, or whoever he was (she decided to call them partners for the time being, until the right title became more clear), and the shorter one seemed to need and rely on that care and affection. He never reached out, never seemed to ask, but she’d notice him inching closer on the bench after the meal was gone, leaning forward ever so slightly as if to make himself easier to reach out and touch. Why not initiate?
Her question had been answered, in a sense, on their ninth visit to the bench. She hadn’t been able to hear them much, as usual, but their interaction had been simple enough to read. They’d been in a melancholy sort of mood that day, and in a moment of lingering silence the shorter one had reached out, hesitant as always, and made to lay a hand on his partner’s sleeve. Immediately he’d frozen, shoulders tensing, warm brown eyes tracking to the offending hand, and the shorter one had drawn back as if burned, tucking his hands into his own sleeves and shrinking back in apology. The taller one had seemed to deflate then, elbows on knees, head hung low. It was several long minutes before the tension between them eased.
She usually couldn’t make out anything they said – they were generally quiet and the bench wasn’t terribly close to her flat. But that had been a particularly quiet moment on the street, and with the wind in her favor she had made out just a few of the shorter man’s words. As he’d laid his head down on his own knee, face turned towards her street, she’d been sure she’d heard him say, “I know. It’s all right.” And then, in reply to something inaudible, “I can wait.”
From that day until now she’s been riveted, barely able to focus on her data-entry work each day through her excitement to watch the two men on their bench. Every other mundane task had become background noise. Even now, as she perches on her window seat and takes her first sip of tea, she flinches, realizing she’s made it over-hot and under-steeped in her hurry to take up her post.
Her burned tongue is quickly forgotten, though, as she looks up and sees that the pair have arrived early today. It must be a special occasion of some kind – they’ve brought a proper blanket this time, and draped it over their end of the bench. A few passersby cast curious, lingering glances their way as they pour from their thermos of tea into two mismatched mugs.
They’re more cheerful today, it seems, and between the tone shift and the blanket, Emma Rose finds herself growing frantic in her desire to hear what they’re saying. It suddenly feels as though her very life depends on her ability to lean in just a bit farther – listen just a bit harder – block out the hum from the fridge and the sound of her neighbors cooking downstairs and the god-awful licking sounds from her cat and the birds, the infuriating birds – she finds herself cupping one ear with a hand and blocking the other so hard she hears her own heartbeat. Then she feels deeply and irrationally angry with her heart for daring to make the sound. She can’t tell a thing from here, she’s got to know what’s going on, she –
The taller man reaches out with both hands, palms up. Emma Rose watches, transfixed, as his partner slowly lays his own hands atop them. Then the taller man is bringing their joined hands up to his face, pressing his partner’s palms to his cheeks, finally letting himself be held. There’s a moment where time seems to stop, and then the partner in question crumples forward, resting his forehead against the tall one’s cheekbone. Then he wriggles up onto his knees, grimacing as he settles his weight onto them, and wraps both arms fervently around the tall one’s shoulders. “Martin,” she suddenly hears him saying. “Oh, Martin, Martin, Martin.”
They stay like that for a long time, lingering until sunset paints the clouds pink and yellow. She stays well past her typical suppertime, bound to the window seat by her need to know, to watch, to understand.
Eventually they break apart, laughing softly together as they shake their protesting limbs into action again. Emma Rose feels as though all her senses are trained on the couple in front of her. She feels sharper, somehow. “I love you, Jon, you know that, right?” Martin says, and she thrills at the realization that she can hear every word.
Jon reaches up and draws Martin’s face down so he can press a long kiss to his forehead. “I know,” he whispers into Martin’s temple. “I love you. I know.”
Then suddenly Jon’s eyes are on her, and her blood turns to ice. His face cycles rapidly from confusion, to recognition, to panic, to something walled-off and level. “Martin,” he murmurs, “let’s go home. Quickly.”
They have an entire conversation in facial expressions then, which results in a confused and alarmed Martin allowing Jon to lead him home by the arm at the fastest clip he can manage. As they depart, the world shifts, and Emma Rose feels suddenly as if she’s waking from a trance. There’s a sense of delayed terror, as though she’s just had a near-death experience. It’s the oddest thing.
She never sees them again. Pity. She’d have liked to know more.