At Least They're Committed

The brilliance of the Denver skyline dies quickly in the east; the shorter buildings succumbing first, turning from hues of blue and red and silver and gold to black and white and gray. The tallest structures retain their brilliance only moments more. Then all are equal.

My reflection in the office window emerges against the gray and I cannot help but look up at it as I ponder my next line, my next project, my next . . .

“Oh, SHIT!” In a moment of terror I realize the eyes looking back at me are not my own. My image reflects my startle as I look slightly upward at two figures standing outside my window. Moving slightly, fidgeting, staring intently back at me.

“Oh, God!”

I’m on the third floor; there are no ledges.

My instincts jettison me across my desk. Charging the window I grab for both figures, a man and a woman. My fingertips tear through the glass, clawing through the crystal, as I catch the confusion on the faces before me.

I know them. I’m pushing, frantic to get to them. But then, without reflection, he pulls my hands back and the glass burns white and is clear and whole again and they are still hovering and their eyes are still staring.

“Help them!” I cry without turning to look at my reprimander. I know who it is. “They’re going to fall!”

“They’re not my problem,” he says. “You are.”

“But they’re hurt . . . ”

“They’ve chosen their paths,” he counters.

I look upon their faces, my hands still pressed to the heat of the glass. They’re beautiful, really, physically beautiful. Stabbing blue eyes, fair skin, slight of build, their mouths — slightly open — hint at their seductive smiles as their golden and amber hair floats, slow motion, in the breeze.

I give them the “model smile” — tongue slightly touching the roof of your mouth — uncertain of what to do for them. The man smiles back just a little bit; the woman looks away.

“They’re wounded,” I whisper.

“Yes, so they asked for you,” he’s stern, but his voice is still musical. “And then?”

I straighten, hug myself and recede a step, into the warmth of his chest. And I watch them. “They spit on me.”

“Yes,” he says. “They judged and damned you for your humanity.”

I nod. The figures begin to stir. Less confused now than agitated. “Maybe someone else can help them?” I turn now and look at GDA. He’s blond and very tall today; I come only to his right nipple as he stands protectively behind me. He stares with a mixture of pity and disgust at the floating figures as he ponders this a moment.

“They turned you out; what makes you think anyone else can do better?” he looks down at me. His eyes are yellow.

I shrug. “I promised I’d be here for them,” I say, turning back to the glass; to the lost, vacant souls before me.

In a flash their agitation turns to realization. Frantically, they look at their feet, their arms flail, their  hands reach, their eyes widen, aghast, and their mouths agape in silent screams.

And they fall.

I don’t even try to reach them, not this time. “Eh,” he answers turning away. “You haven’t gone anywhere, have you?”

The day has died completely and in the office window there is nothing but me.