Daya 46 and 47

A writing exercise

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This end-of-week writing exercise is to take a particular painting, one of three suggestions, and write a story.

Well, I haven’t exactly been doing this forever, but as a variation, I take photographs and write stories around them.

I call it ‘A photograph from the inspiration bin’.

Nearly all of my short stories come from a photograph, either one I’ve taken or one that I’ve found on a royalty-free site.

However, today, it’s going to be different. I’m picking a painting and writing a story.

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Night Windows by Edward Hopper, 1928

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It’s not so much that my apartment building was across the street, that it was overlooking another that had an occupant who was not afraid to pull the curtains and take what privacy that might offer.

At first, it was disconcerting, because I had a little balcony and on the warm summer nights I would put a blanket down and lie down, staring up at the sky, not that any part of it could be clearly discerned.

What that balcony offered was any coolness that was on offer and the sounds of the city gently drifting up to my level. Sounds often soothing enough to put me to sleep.

But it was the apartment opposite, one level lower, a corner with three windows, and the room that was clearly set aside to sit and relax.

The first time Josie appeared in that room, the first time I saw her was the day after she moved in. It was not hard, in the confines of the apartment building on that part of the street, to notice who came and who went.

She stood at the window and surveyed what were to be her neighbours, her eyes finally resting on my balcony, not that I was looking, but when I did, our eyes met, and she smiled.

It was the beginning of summer. Life was easy, and the post-war malaise had long dissipated into a feeling that things could only get better. The newspapers were calling it the Roaring Twenties.

Over the next few weeks, she appeared at odd times, opening the windows and taking in the breeze. I took to speculating what her profession might be and landed on the most obvious showgirl.

Then, one night, I saw her peering out into the night, glancing in every direction as the rain began to fall, and I had to beat a hasty retreat.

Ten minutes later, there was a light rapping on my door; a surprise because I had yet to cultivate any acquainted in my building even though I had seen and briefly spoken to several.

I waited until a second knock and then went over to the door and opened it.

The girl from across the road, half damp from walking in the rain, water in her hair, and a few drops running down the side of her face.

“Hello,” she said.

I thought she had come to tell me to stop looking over. It was difficult not to, given how close the buildings were, and it was not as if one could look in that direction and not see her.

“Hello to you.”

“May I come on?”

I nodded and stood to one side to let her pass. A passing thought, she was very brave to enter the apartment, not knowing who was there.

I closed the door but did not lock it. She crossed to the window and looked out, then turned.

“Would you like a towel?”

“I am a bit damp, aren’t I. I misjudged how heavy it was. Yes, if you have a spare.”

I did, fetched it, and gave it to her, then I waited until she’d finished. I think it was an advantage that her hair was short.

Then, after another glance over at her apartment, one indeed partially open, the soft lighting left on casting a subdued glow over the room, she looked at me.

“I wanted to look at what my living room looked like from the outside.”

“I believe some people would kill just to get that room. You were lucky if you were rich, perhaps?”

“My grandmother’s, I’m afraid, and I am only staying there while she takes the steamer to Europe for the summer. Then it’s back to the farm.”

“First time?”

“No, we come once a year. I came this time to audition for dancing roles in stage productions or cabarets, but it’s a brutal business. A country girl like me has a lot to learn, and I’d hate to come here without anything, and try to make it.”

“Have you had any success?”

I had to admit I was surprised that she made the effort to come over, in fact, to work out which apartment I was in, that she would want to.

“No. Got sore feet and aches in places I never knew existed. It’s a lonely business. I see you out there soaking up what little breeze there is, and I wondered how you manage.”

“You should not be so trusting.”

“Call it country girl common sense, but I can tell good from bad. You spend more time pretending I’m not there. That, to me, says a little about your character. My name is Josie, short for Josephine, but I hate Jo.”

“Tim, short for Timothy, and only my parents use Timothy when they’re angry with me, which was most of the time.”

We shook hands or perhaps touched hands.

“City boy?”

“No. Midwest, I learned to ride a horse before I could walk. I don’t hate it, but there’s a lot of worlds out there, and I want to see some of it before I have to go back. How long are you here?”

“A couple of months. I don’t see success on the horizon. I thought my dancing skills were quite good. Perhaps back in Wisconsin, maybe, but not here. Can I call you a friend?”

“If you are in need of one.”

She smiled. “In a place like this, at least one.”

“Would you like to have dinner one night? There’s a diner not far away, and the food is quite good.”

“A date?”

“Dinner. Is that a date?”

“It’s whatever you want it to be. If you can work out my apartment number, call on me tomorrow night.”

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©  Charles Heath  2025