Window #5

The window artist says he sketches pictures of us, but we can’t see the resemblance. With his pointer finger, he cuts and chisels away at the frost on his window. He stares at us, then turns to his work. He begins with the body, though it seems misshapen to us, the forearms out of proportion with the rest, the fingers elongated, curved like knotted branches. But what’s most disturbing are the faces. We get excited when we first recognize a face. Dwight squeals, when Bob says today’s sketch looks like him. Just when we think he’s done, the window artist breathes upon the frosted creation. Cracks form. The face shatters. Pieces slough off. The right ear slips away and slides into an elbow. The nose drops to the chest, but the chest has already peeled away, each half curling into a thigh. Dwight looks as if he’s going to cry. I don’t look like that, he says. We assure him he doesn’t. The frost mouth slips all the way down to the base of the window, separate from the rest of the body. Then, the Bus Driver makes a hard left so that what little sunlight there is breaks through the clouds and hits the frosted window. The shifting kaleidoscope of colors makes it look as if the mouth is moving. Dwight’s the first one to cry out. “I get it,” he shouts. “I get it!” We beg him to tell us what it says. But, he is too focused on the message. Wings of ice beat at his face, as if crows weigh down his tongue. He breaks apart before us. His pieces sloughing off onto the vinyl seat, pooling on the floor. All the while, he stares at the mouth. When it’s over, we turn to the window artist. He picks away at the ice mouth. Piece by piece, he dismantles it, places the pieces in the center of his tongue, where they slowly melt.