If I were in a romantic comedy instead of my life I would currently be having some sort of flirtatious non-relationship that would inevitably lead to true love with the guy who’s living room window is directly across from my office window.
He’s not there all the time, and I know he lives with someone because I sometimes see her – though, oddly, in what is clearly a one bedroom apartment it often appears that he lives with two women because I’m sure I sometimes see a blonde one and sometimes a brunette with glasses and no one can change hair styles that often or fast. Though that would clearly be part of the required misunderstandings for the romantic comedy script: I think they’re living in some permanent ménage a trios, when really one’s his sister who’s sleeping on the couch and will. not. leave! Whacky high-jinx would take place until I figured it out, including several scenes which would appear to be highly sexual from my side but which were in fact perfectly innocent.
They also have an attractive grey and white cat who lives along the window sills, but I hate cats, so that would be a problem too. Perhaps Romantic Comedy Me would be even more allergic to those satanic fur balls than I am now and would start sneezing and crying unattractively upon finally meeting Window Guy for the first time because of the presence of the cat in his life.
But he’s cute – Window Guy, not the cat – and he’s often just sitting working at his computer which faces straight out the window and at my office. So Romantic Comedy Me would be gripped by fantasies about who he is and what his life is that sometimes he’s working at his computer all day, and other times he’s gone for days at a time, and eventually we would make eye contact of some sort and, I don’t know, make faces at each other, and somehow start communicating – perhaps one of us would write our email address on a piece of paper and hold it up to the window. We would see the ups and downs of each others’ lives before we finally meet. It would be farcical and sometimes poignant.
Today would be a farce day because he is sporting major bed-head and I have a giant zit on my chin that I’m desperately trying to hide from the world at large.
However, the last time I checked my life was not a romantic comedy – I have neither the comic timing nor the required level of neuroses – and therefore my sole interaction with Window Guy is the occasional glance when some movement over there catches annoyingly in the corner of my eye, a sadistic interest in whether the cat is ever going to fall off the window ledge, and frequent momentary panic when I realise I’m doing something crazy like making rude and futile gestures at my computer and check to make sure no one is watching.
And in my non-romantic comedy life what I really fantasise about is how I can get the time off and get my hair dresser to come to my place and do my hair in the middle of a week day like the woman who lives downstairs from Window Guy has apparently managed to achieve.
