Page 17 of Drawn Together
He is quiet most days, or maybe he’s just gone so much I don’t notice. But this evening, he sits there—tiny feet perched on the water-damaged wood, catching his breath—watching thecity below just like I do. Sometimes, he carries something in his mouth—a twig from some distant tree or a torn piece from a yellow leaf freshly fallen onto the pavement below. Once, it was a pistachio shell that made it look like he was sipping out of a tiny mug at certain angles.
Today, he’s got nothing in his mouth and a quiet song from his throat—a steady trill that comes and goes through the hours of the late afternoon. It’s sweet company as I sip my overly sweetened English breakfast tea and finish the final line configurations of my first commission for Cedric Brooks.
I would have been done two days ago, but it just felt like something was missing. After re-reading the full manuscript three more times, I settled on it being the lack of details. What comforter would little Evie have? What kind of shoes would her parents leave lined up by the front door? Is she a Cinnamon Toast Crunch kind of girl, or would she like Fruity Pebbles?
It’s been a week since I first started the sample art pieces for the first two pages, and my progress feels undeniably spectacular.
I type up an email to Cedric’s agent and press send, my heart an added attachment in the outgoing box. The tiny ‘unsend’ button dissipates along with my anxiety. No going back now.
My mockingbird friend flutters off his perch. I watch in the distance as his gray wings lead him to the windowsill of another building across the street. I wonder who all he visits in a day. How many locals does he watch throughout his time? He probably keeps a log in his mind of lonely people to visit—an older woman walking home with a paper bag full of Honeycrisp apples, ready to make dessert for her visiting grandkids that never come. A single mom, drinking wine from a bag, as her kids pass out in their rooms without saying goodnight, leaving her alone with the autumn air and cast in a glow from her late-night TV shows. A young illustrator, knees tucked into a ball, curlyhair splayed against the glass window—nothing but her and her fictional friends in the living room—a dancing memory from her high school days twirling round and round in her temple.
I track his landing, the golden warmth of the setting sun following him to his destination on the other windowsill. Who is his next person to spectate? Maybe an old man desperate for love in his final days. The bird would direct him to the old woman with apples. She makes too much dessert, and he offers to eat the rest, knowing it will off-balance his blood sugar, but is too happy to deny her. Or maybe a lonely single dad, exhausted from chasing twin girls around, who happen to be best friends with the other single mom’s kids. They find their solitude in their playdates and navigate being young parents together as they fall in love with not only each other, but with themselves as well.
Like the universe finds my romantic heart to be absurd, it decides to play a cruel trick on me by having the curtains draw back, and standing there on the other side is none other than Fletcher Harding.
There are over a hundred windows in that building, and my traitorous friend of a bird chooses the worst one to land on.
He stands there, a sage green mug in one hand, the other tucked in the pocket of his plaid pajama pants. His eyes lock onto the visiting bird, and he sets his mug down before unlocking the window and sliding it open. The mockingbird barely reacts from the sudden movement, just does a couple hop-hops down the brick wall.
Fletcher’s mouth moves, his words dulled out by the sounds of the street below. I bet Sloane would be able to understand what he was saying. She’s always been best at that, watching passersby on the beach, signing their conversations for lip reading practice.
He reaches a hand out—gentle and calm—palm open, wrist covered by the sleeve of his black hoodie. The bird hops away, but doesn’t fly off, just watches him carefully.
The distance is too great to know for sure, but whatever Fletcher mouths next looks to be followed by a tilt of an almost smile? A condescending smirk, most likely.
His arms cross, and it makes his shoulders look even more broad, lifting almost to his ears. His nose looks like maybe it’s been broken before, and someone didn’t set it correctly afterward.
Behind him, I can only see a small sliver of his apartment, and even that feels illegal. A dark green couch. Wooden shelves loaded with beige, white, and black spines. No blankets. No pops of color. Completely, ordinarily bland.
Something about Fletcher’s last words has the mockingbird fluttering off, toward my building. But instead of landing on any window, he goes up above me, and I assume, settles on the rooftop.
Fletcher's eyes follow the bird’s movements but catch on one window—my window.
There’s no way he can see in here. When I researched the building's apartment history, it said about two years ago they added a film to the windows that have a reflective surface. When you walk on the sidewalk below, it gives a perfect view of your reflection—like all these mirrors lined up one by one in a fashion runway. Then, you come into the lobby and can see straight out. It’s nice—a little extra privacy that I never knew I needed.
That being said, I know Fletcher can’t see me—it’s impossible—but, his eyes are stuck on this window, like maybe he knows I’m staring back at him.
Does he know exactly which window is Lennon’s? They’ve been friends for a while now, so I would assume he’s been overhere before. Did he count the floors going up and across to clock on ours, wondering if she would ever open it and look back?
It’s a possibility, I suppose. But, when I'm looking out at him with a raised brow, he’s just standing there in his pajamas looking the archetype of comfort. I don’t think like he can see me. But, his eyes are dead set, like if he could see in here, then his vision would be going right through me.
I raise a hand and give a tiny wave. Fletcher stays completely still. I raise my hand above my head with a straight arm and wave again, more aggressive this time. He doesn't even blink. Or if he does, I can’t see it. We are about thirty feet away, after all.
My lip quirks up a bit. I don’t know why it’s such a satisfying thought, knowing I can see him, and he can’t see me, but it’s the tiny wins that matter.
And then, because it delights me that much, I move my legs in a little jig and shake my hips at him in a ‘you can look but you can’t touch’ gesture, just because I can.
Fletcher keeps his eyes on my mirrored window for a moment longer while I dance and revel in his inability to see me. Then, in a flash, he’s gone. His back faces me as he walks off to whatever else is within his living space. Probably encyclopedias he likes to read for fun and some kind of dinosaur fact book with no pictures.
Then, as if to prove a point, Malcolm lands on my window again. And I smile at him, thankful for this little discovery he has given me.
Fletcher Harding now had two little peepers, the bird still being his favorite. Though, the little guy never danced for him, so maybe Flora was working her way up faster than he thought.
Eight
Wordoftheday:synallagmatic
Definition:relating to a mutual agreement where each party is bound to perform an obligation
