Windowpane
The window is slightly ajar. I move my face closer towards the edge of the pane, resting my chin upon the ledge, and I feel the sharp coolness of the metal on my skin. You must not open the window any further, for safety restrictions, of course. It would be a tragedy if a student were to accidentally topple over, plummeting down several stories. How would the body land? Limbs splayed, with one leg bent, as shown in films. The skull would be crushed, perhaps, from the impact of hitting the concrete pavement with such force. A growing puddle of blood dispersing around the head like a misshapen halo. A slight twitch of the fingers as the corpse gives one last declaration of life. A crowd of people would slowly gather to catch only a glance of something rumoured or joked about. It would be inconvenient for everyone involved. And no one’s that stupid.
I remember being in a Geography lesson, perhaps, in Year 10? Or was it Year 11? No, it was Year 10. I was in Geography, annotating the features of a river and talking about the upcoming mocks, when someone — I can’t remember who — said: “You know, if someone just kills themselves right before our real exams, we all pass.”
“That’s bullshit.”
“No! I swear it’s true. I think we all automatically get a 7, because of how traumatized we’ll be from it.”
“So, we just need to convince someone to jump a few stories, right during lunch, so it’s really fucked, and maybe we’ll get 9s instead.”
“How the hell would someone do that, though? There’s no way to get to the roof, and the windows are too stiff to open all the way.”
“I don’t know. It’s a last resort idea.”
As I stand by the window, the crisp air embraces my face; I inhale, I exhale. The elm trees in the distance sway slightly, a slow dance to the soft notes of the wind, with its intimate movements evoking those of two lovers in the fantasy of a dreaming romantic. The leafless branches form an aesthetic silhouette, the scaffolding of what once was, and the architecture of what will be. Minute mustard lights poke out amongst its lattices, joined by an array of various other coloured specks of illumination, indicating some semblance of continuing life.
Months ago, when the trees in another park still held onto its leaves, Eve and I would sit under its forest-tinted heat, and we would watch people passing by, caressed by the honey hues of the summer sun. An old man walking a dog, a group of children playing football, a woman being serenaded by her partner playing their guitar. Eve would rest my right hand on her left and trace the meandering contours of my palm with the tips of her fingers. She moved with the greatest ease, gentle in her connection. She would pretend to know exactly what the ridges on my hand meant, claiming a certain contour indicated an intellectual curiosity, and another deep crescent denoted longevity of life, and so on and so forth. I am sure most of it she made up, but I yearned for those moments. Just sitting with her, listening to the slow tones of the lazy summer wind with her dark curls spilling over my shoulder, knowing she felt the same bliss; it was enough.
It still makes me smile. Has she replied yet? I should check my phone.
I adjust my chin on the window ledge slightly, feeling some discomfort. As I reach over to my desk for my phone, I run my fingers along the base of my face and feel a slight etched crevice from the metal edge of the windowpane. Grimacing slightly, I rub my chin, in an attempt to remove the temporary mark, but the frown is quickly dismissed with the secret implosion in my chest that always accompanies Eve’s texts.
I’ll get the tube from Victoria, the train’s at 11. I’ll see you around 3 maybe?
Sounds good, I’ll see you then! Love you.
Love you too!
I look towards the window again. The breeze greets me once more, reminding me of that afternoon with her, and it is as if I can smell Eve’s vanilla citrus shampoo with every breath I take. I smile once more, before I force myself to do the goddamn summative that awaits me at my desk.