Through the Window
The room stank. Sweat, dirty sheets, the stale smell of beer unfinished in open cans on the desk. The room was stuffy, warm, unbearable. All the windows were shut tight, and a loud snoring came from a blanketed lump on the bed. The lump did not stir. To the right of the lump lay Grant, buck naked, still covered in a slick sheen of perspiration. He was warm, too warm. He was staring directly upwards at the ceiling, wide awake.
Grant was afraid to move. He was trapped between the girl – he wasn’t even sure what her name was – and the white painted cinderblock of the dorm room wall. She faced away from him and was covered by a plain white sheet. The sheet rose and fell peacefully. She snored. He lay in terror of her waking. The air around him was heavy and thick; this being a door room, there was no circulation. In the heat and the dark he felt he was in a coffin.
He glanced over to his left without moving his head. He confirmed that she was, in fact, still asleep. He began moving his arm from his side, slowly, ever so slowly, his eyes never leaving her sleeping form. Up it went, up, painstakingly slow, until finally his hand was over his exposed balls. He began to scratch them, vigorously, barely able to control himself. Something about air exposure, lying there uncovered, the humid room, all of it made his balls itch like never before. After a few seconds he stopped and sighed with absolute relief. Jesus Christ, that felt good.
Suddenly he heard movement, his eyes widened, and in a panic, he turned his head over. She stirred, just slightly. The blankets shifted. He shut his mouth, felt like an idiot, but after a few seconds the regular breathing returned, and the snoring resumed. He exhaled through his nose and moved his hand back to his side.
He needed to leave. Coming home with this girl had seemed a great idea an hour or two ago, but an hour or two ago he was drunk and horny and now he was neither. Now he was only sweaty. And warm. He knew he wouldn’t be able sleep at all in these conditions. All he wanted was his own room, his own well-made bed, so cool and inviting, a place where there was air circulation and clean sheets and no smell of beer and fresh coffee in the morning.
But how? He stared still at the tiled ceiling. He needed to leave without waking her somehow. If she woke up the game would be lost, he would be finished. Going through the door was not an option. It was a loud heavy thing that creaked on the hinges and clacked when it shut. She would awaken immediately, in a drunken, angry stupor, shout something at him, call him an asshole for hooking up with a girl and then leaving in the middle of the night – but how could one sleep in these conditions? He was desperate for sleep, exhausted. There was one way out, he knew, it had been in the back of his mind the whole time but now he considered it: he was going to go through the window.
She was on the ground floor, thank God, but it still wouldn’t be easy.
And so he began. An inch at a time: shimmy, shimmy, monitoring constantly her breathing, shimmy, shimmy, look again – I’m good, I’m good – shimmy, shimmy. He was moving, making his way downwards towards the end of the bed. Trapped between her and the wall he couldn’t directly get off the bed without going over her – but he could, slowly, surely, slide himself off the end. Thankfully he was on top of the sheets – after they had finished, sweaty and disgusting he had lain himself out en plein air like a damp towel to dry – and thus there was no fear that the moving of the covers would disturb her.
Soon he felt his bare ass touching the beds edge. Till now his feet had protruded out into the dark off the end of the bed and towards the door, like a stick of gum hanging out of the package. He had kept them perfectly straight but now he tentatively began to bend his knees. Reaching, reaching for the cheap carpeted floor, his feet inching downward, down, falling through the empty space – and with the clinking of cans they landed in her recycling bin.
Fuck. He hadn’t been paying attention when he came in the room, he had been otherwise occupied, but like all dorms this one was notoriously cramped, and she had tucked her garbage and recycling at the foot of the bed to save space. His feet were in the recycling. The cans were sticky.
He’d tapped the bin just loud enough to rattle the empty Budweiser’s and Palm Bays inside. His eyes widened white and reflective in the dark and he looked back towards her – nothing. Incredible. The sleep of the dead. He pulled his feet back up, carefully, and shimmied out further. At length he tried lowering his feet again, and this time struck the surprisingly cool carpeted floor.
With both feet on the floor, he put his hands on the foot of the wooden bed frame and pushed himself up. In the faint light he saw his abs appear as he struggled into a seated position. Finally, he was upright sitting on the foot of the bed. The door was directly in front of him, and he was tempted but he knew there was no possibility of getting it open and shut without waking her. The dorm doors are built heavy, designed to withstand abuse, and they close too loudly.
The next problem was clothing. He glanced around, trying to remember what he’d done with his things. Now standing the liquor hit him again and his head swam. He steadied himself against the wall. Evidently, he wasn’t as sober as he had thought. Looking down, Grant saw his junk swinging monotonously like the pendulum of an old clock.
His head cleared. He walked, slowly, crept like a goblin hunched over toward the centre of the room. Where were his pants? A car passed by and the light from its headlamps illuminated his naked, hunched form. He froze in place. At the same time, he noticed something shining: his belt buckle. Bingo. Slow, methodical steps. Laying each foot down as quietly as possible. His pants were between the bed and the desk, and she was facing right towards them. He had to be careful.
He was still damp with sweat and all the activity had made it worse. Disgusting. He reached the pants, bent slowly, and gingerly picked them up. The belt buckle clinked – he froze – she rolled over, pulled at the covers, but again did not wake. Wrappings his fingers around the buckle to stop any more noise he pulled the pants up his legs. He thought about his underwear briefly, glanced around, saw them nowhere – hell, they might even be in the bed. Fuck em, he thought. I’m going commando.
His shirt was a little way away, barely in arms reach. He grabbed it and pulled it towards him. His socks he found under his pants. His shoes – fuck, his shoes! He crept back towards the door and found them there, tried to lace them; his hands shook, he couldn’t see what he was doing. The last piece was his jacket, it was still cold outside even for spring. It was on her swivel desk chair. He lifted it off with one hand and used the other to make sure the chair didn’t swivel because he knew, invariably, that it would squeak and wake her.
Finally, finally he went to her window. The head of the bed was right next to the window but thankfully a nightstand stood between the two. He looked at her again. A living, breathing mound, now rising, now falling. He looked out the window, felt around – he could see outside the street, parked cars, buildings, the night sky shining with stars, cool air, in short, freedom. His fingers caught on the latch. He moved it slowly so it would not click and then started pushing the window open. It slid right towards her sleeping head. He had to go slowly again, barely moving it a millimetre at a time, but finally it was open. Cool night air rushed in, the stale, oppressive warmth disappeared, and he could smell wet grass. He inhaled deeply. He stuck his hand out into the dark, into freedom – and hit something.
Confused he tried again and once more struck a wall. He crouched a little and stared into the dark. There was a screen. A screen! He almost collapsed on the floor in disbelief. He grabbed his head and pushed his thumbs into his eyes in exasperation. A headache was starting to form. With the window now open the temperature of the room was changing quickly, and the girl was moving again, stirring in her sleep. She would wake soon. He had to go now.
Rapidly he felt around the edges of the screen, touched each part and soon found what he wanted. Simple metal clasps on swivels held it in place, one on each side, one on the top, one on the bottom. He turned all four backwards and the screen fell into his hands. He looked at it for a second, wondering what to do with it. He leaned it against the front of the nightstand, and it touched down without a sound.
He put his hand out into the night air. Nothing more blocked his path. The breeze dried his clammy palms. Freedom. He put his hands on the outer ledge of the window, lifted his leg out and was about to duck his head through when he suddenly froze. He glanced back at where she was sleeping and saw her face. Her soft white cheeks had sunk into her pillow and her nose was downturned, its graceful slope ending in a little bulb that just barely touched the fabric. With her eyes closed she looked peaceful, her breathing came regularly, a few wispy strands fell from her messy hair and lay gently across her cheeks. She had the innocent, naive face of a doe. Suddenly he was awash with guilt. He felt like a criminal, halfway finished robbing a poor girl, clambering out the window like a scoundrel. His gut clenched, he became nervous, he was suddenly unsure. He felt the insane urge to turn around, to climb back in the sweaty bed, he felt by leaving he was doing something wrong, terribly wrong. He looked upon her silent face, even the moonlit lit it perfectly as though to taunt him. He cursed under his breath. He wanted to go to her.
But the fear of her waking, the thought of the stagnant air and the filthy room, the smell of beer, all of it returned and in a panic he threw himself the rest of the way out of the window. He fell, rolled and ended up on his stomach. With his palms pressed into the wet grass he lay completely still. A light mist fell, everything was wet and cool. He waited with bated breath, but she did not wake up. Slowly he stood and looked out into the empty street. He began to relax. He could breathe again. Grinning, flush with victory, he began to walk home. But no sooner had he taken a step when he looked back at the dorm. For a moment he stood, hesitant, unsure. Then he walked back and quietly shut the window from the outside. A wind was blowing – he didn’t want her to be cold.
Grant didn’t think of her much after that. Sunday he was hungover. Monday was boring regularity, a dreary day, depressing like all Mondays. Tuesday he was busy with schoolwork, he had a final project due in his Design class. Wednesday was trivia night. This meant a pitcher at the student bar with the boys. He got a buzz on and now he did think of her – he told his friends loudly of his conquest. The boys congratulated him, she was definitely a solid 7, some even contended a light 8, and he was pleased with himself. The sex hadn’t been amazing – what drunken hookup sex is? – but it had been fun, and she had a nice big ass he could boast about and boast he did. But what was the greatest hit, the most exciting part of the story was the escape – putting his clothes on as quietly as possible, fumbling with the screen, falling drunk through the window – with this his friends were impressed.
Thursday morning Grant had a very minor hangover, but the spring sky was bright and perfectly clear, a blue dome ringing the horizon. It was one of those perfect spring days that heralded summer. The sun shone warmly, and he wore a t shirt and no coat and even brought his sunglasses. The muddy campus trails had dried up, the snow everywhere was melting, and the streets ran with trickling water. Even his profs seemed to have perked up, the lectures were more animated, the students even paid attention. Leaving class, he decided to take the long way home just to enjoy the sunshine. He wandered the streets and after a while he realized he had walked to her dorm. He was on the opposite side of the street, but he could see her window clearly and recognized it immediately. He glanced at the scene of his crime. The window was now closed, the screen refitted, even the grass under the windowsill was undisturbed. It was as though nothing had ever occurred. He felt melancholy somehow.
Through the window he suddenly noticed movement in the dim room, and the same fear as when he had made his escape returned. He panicked, turned his head away from the window and started walking rapidly. Before long he was gone.
Friday. Drink in hand Grant sat on an old couch. He and his friends were positioned around a coffee table on which a drinking game was being played. The music was loud. Girls streamed in, some pretty, many not, and the lads discussed.
“Utterly mid.”
“Jesus, they really are.”
“I mean, I still would.”
“Yep.”
A few moments earlier Grant had taken a tequila shot in the kitchen and his head was swimming. He looked around, happy, drunk, stupid, and took another pull on his beer. Then he noticed the table had gotten quiet. He looked up from his drink, his friends were hushed, snickering, holding back laughter.
“What’s going on?” he asked.
More laughter, then a finger pointed towards the door.
“Grant, buddy. Looks like your friend is here.”
His gut clenched. Another voice:
“Dude, its window girl!”
Grant stared wide eyed. Indeed, it was her – the same white skin, the same brown hair. Same doe face. She walked in, smiling, confident, pretty, and she was just as he remembered her. She was wearing high waisted jeans and one of those shirts that barely reaches the top of the abdomen. For a minute he looked; she really was pretty. Then in absolute terror he turned his head, averted his eyes and looked directly at the table.
His friends cracked up. Someone punched him on the arm. He took a swig of beer.
Despite her presence the night went on as such nights often do. Grant drank, he played beer pong, he talked to different girls. But as the evening ended Grant found himself alone on the couch. The party was emptying out. Some people still were playing beer pong, the cups clacked and sloshed, some girls sat on the kitchen counter and talked. The table in front of Grant was strewn with Corona caps and empty cans of cider. In the middle a circle of sticky playing cards surround a cup of off-brown liquid – no on had had to drink the Kings cup. Grants friends had already left. He figured he would finish his last beer and go home.
Then he saw her over by the stairs. Of course he did, of course he couldn’t leave without running into her again. She was talking to a friend. She had been around all night but until now Grant had successfully avoided her, they hadn’t even made across the room uncomfortable eye contact. But now she was standing directly in front of him, between his spot and the door, plunked down by fate. In a split second he had a solution. He began chugging back his last beer. Once finished, he could make a beeline for the door. Easy.
But as the last foamy dregs hit his throat, he felt the same rush of guilt. Again he felt like a criminal, again his stomach burned and his palms sweated. He saw her innocent face again in his mind. A terrible nervousness began to build pressure and he knew he could not simply walk out of the door.
Grant stood shakily. The drink hit him as he got up and he half stumbled off of the couch. Her friend looked up, startled by his sudden movement. She followed her friends gaze and saw him. Her doe eyes widened, embarrassment stole across her face, then a frown of disgust.
“Hi.”
“Hey.”
He waved his hands around.
“I, uh, I’m the guy–“
“I know who you are.”
“The, uh, the window.”
“Yeah.”
Her friend was laughing now. Grant looked at her uncomfortably. Wished he had a drink to swig, an action to fill empty conversational space.
“I just… did I fuck up your screen?”
“What?”
He realized he could not possibly have said anything mores stupid. He imagined ramming his head into a nearby wall.
“If I fucked up your window screen or anything I apologize, I’ll fix it. I’ll… pay for it.”
It was a lame thing to say. She clearly agreed. He looked at her face again, felt the guilt grip him, the nausea, and he had to speak.
“I’m sorry. In general. I feel like a dick and I really want to apologize. I don’t know how to, but I hope–”
“It’s fine.”
She smiled a little.
“Its nice of you to apologize.”
“Yeah. Of course. No problem.”
Grant looked at the ground. Her friend, no longer laughing, looked to her expectantly. Grant looked up again.
“Do you guys wanna sit on the couch?” he offered. “It’s much better than standing.”
And without a word all three went and sat down.