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My favourite radio station warns me softly from the kitchen: Today, there is a threat of rain – a ninety percent likelihood of falls greater than 10mm.
I have been watching him from across our urban canyon for many months now, but today I realise that we see each other in different ways.
He sits at his computer, side-on to me. I can see him in profile as he works, but I am hidden behind my monitor with its back to the window. He could see me if I choose to let him. I could stand up, or lean to one side. But he never looks my way. I might as well not be here.
He works diligently, takes few breaks, concentrates on his screen, makes phone calls. I try to imagine what he does all day. Everyday. He’s not like me – stopping and starting, getting up, taking breaks, making coffee, pacing the apartment, riding the lift down and back up again. And I do not use the phone – I have no one to call.
We both live on the thirteenth floor of our adjacent apartment towers, facing each other. He’s on the north side of the street, and I’m on the south. I get the sun, he gets the shade. If we both wish, we can look west and east, to observe the weather coming and going. I do this all the time. I like to know what’s heading my way and what’s leaving me behind. At every opportunity, I like to experience the turmoil and chaos of the weather. It often matches my moods – unpredictable, uneasy, taken for granted.
Normally, he takes no interest at all in the weather. Last month, a sudden and violent storm howled down this gulf between us, lashing the windows and shaking the glass. He didn’t flinch, didn’t even turn to face that roiling soup of wind, hail and rain. I wondered if he might be deaf.
