That week he learned that his grandmother had passed away. Although this was something he foresaw, as it is what grandmothers are wont to do, it hurt him more than he expected. He hadn’t seen her in years and only occasionally spoke to her on the phone, but her presence loomed large in his life. The timing of the news was particularly distressing for him. For days he had been unable to sleep, feeling more alone than ever in his empty loft, painting frantically late into the night and wandering the cold industrial streets of the neighborhood in a daze during the day. He was worried about getting old, or so he thought. Upon receiving the news of his grandmother’s death, he began to realize that he was worried not so much about dying, but rather about leading an insignificant life. He had begun to question his every action, not only all of his work but also the mundane daily tasks that normally brought him comfort.
It was the middle of winter and he had no friends in town. The girl he was seeing had flown south for the holidays and wouldn’t answer his calls. He had stopped shaving and had been talking to himself more than usual. Realizing this he had then begun to leave the radio on permanently so as to fill the studio with the voice of strangers.
He opened the tall window and leaned out, watched the junkies below stumble into the alleyway next to his building, then stretched his body out far enough over the ledge to gaze down his street and see all the way across the city towards the water. He watched the minuscule lights of the passing boats bob up and down and was instantly reminded of a trip he took with his grandmother as a child. In truth he could not actually remember the trip itself, but was taken back to an instant on a ferryboat crossing during a stormy evening. He could smell his grandmother’s sweet flowery perfume and feel her warm hand holding on to his, holding his body near hers protectively as the boat struggled through riotous waves. Until that moment he had no recollection of that particular memory. He closed his eyes and felt the cold night wind rushing past his ears and then the faint hum of the city. The memory faded. As he slouched back inside and closed his window he noticed a woman in the apartment across the street from his sitting on her bed with the light on, looking directly at him. For a moment they stared at each other. Not knowing how to acknowledge her, he waved awkwardly then latched the window shut. She waved back tentatively before shutting off her light and laying back in bed next to a sleeping man.
He shuffled over to the kitchen in the dark and finally turned the radio off. Then he turned on the lamps that lit the canvas in the corner of the room and began to paint the image of what would become a cold, turbulent ocean. Occasionally he would glance out of the window to check if the woman across the street had her light on again, but for the rest of the night it remained off.
When the sun was up he finally snapped out of his trance and propped himself on the window ledge with a cup of coffee. Across the way he could see far into the loft of the neighbor, past the now empty unmade bed. This was the first time he studied the space. In the back of her apartment he now saw that she was busy at work on a large canvas leaning against her far wall. He watched her approach the painting with a brush in her hand and then step back to look at what she had just done. Her rhythm hypnotized him. He couldn’t make out the actual work, but her movements were to him a work of their own. He watched her for over an hour, unable to look away.
Later, returning home from a walk around the neighborhood, he stopped at the entrance of the woman’s building and took note of the name on the buzzer of the appropriate floor. Once upstairs he again stepped to the window and searched for her. It seemed as though no one was home and for a while he watched her empty apartment, tried in vein to actually see the painting, now shrouded in shadow. Then the man who had been asleep on the bed the night before walked into view from what could only have been the bathroom. Wearing only his underwear, the man opened his window and lit a cigarette. He paced back and forth as he smoked, never once looking across the street where he would have seen a near mirror image of himself watching in rapture.
That night he leafed through the phone book and found the number for the couple’s apartment. He thought he might call to introduce himself. He thought they could be friends. He thought about how convenient it would be to have company so close by.
As the sun went down he once again leaned out of his window and looked to the water. It had been so long since he was on a boat. He tried to go back to the memory in the ferryboat but couldn’t force the feeling that had brought him there the first time. It was snowing outside now and he watched the snowflakes flitter to the ground. He felt a deep sadness sink into his stomach. He could get on the Staten Island ferry and travel back to that memory. He longed for the instability of floating on water, the ominously soothing rocking of the boat.
He thought again about calling his neighbors. Their apartment was now dark and empty.
