Her Favorite Feeling Is What She Feels Looking Down The Window

I peep down from the window of my flat onto the street, and as I do so a part of my mind is aware of a similar feeling – of looking down from a classroom window onto the basketball court of my school ground as a young girl.

A woman ambles towards a fruit vendor on the street but I also see the meat-pink surface of the court – a rectangle with neat lines of lime dust running around its four sides – where a boy is aiming a throw at the backboard, unaware of my gaze on him.

The woman picks a pomegranate from the bottom most row of the heap breaking the symmetry of the pile, and a few pieces fall down rolling on the road. The fruit seller dashes after them, and the springing sound of the basketball being dabbed against the court’s hard floor ricochets in my ears. The ball swings into the net through the rim and the boy leaps into the air to catch it before it hits the ground. He secures the ball tightly against his chest but falls flat on his back, and my mouth opens in a gasp. The fruit seller sprints back to the cart to weigh the pomegranates selected by the woman. As I watch, I take a sip from the coffee mug in my hands, my tongue burns.

The teacher notices my gasp and asks me in a sharp tone to share with the class what it is outside the window that enchants me so much. My classmates giggle knowingly; I nod and pretend to be present in the class; downstairs, the basketball continues to bounce.

Her Favorite Feeling Is What She Feels Looking Down The Window

The loud period bell rings and a crowd gathers around the fruit seller’s cart who is arguing with the woman to take the fallen and spoiled fruits along with her. When the teacher leaves I find the boy still practicing in the court – now sweaty and more focused on his game. My coffee finishes so I decide to close the window above the noisy street. As I bring the flaps together the boy stops and looks up directly at me, and I latch the window as I remember having smiled back at him.