Woman At The Window

A Short Story 

She insisted on a window seat as she bustled into the café from the damp, cobbled streets. Even though the only unoccupied table was laid for four covers, she quickly made her way over to it. After removing her dripping raincoat, she placed it on the back of the corner-most chair and sat down.

Barely visible from the dreary street, she sat turned in towards the café, yet continuously glanced through the picture window at the busy road outside. Waiting for someone, maybe. Could they see her? Maybe she wanted them to pass by. Why?

She wasn’t what you’d call a pretty woman, but certainly not unattractive. She had olive skin and was smartly dressed in black trousers with stylish calf-length leather boots. Her rust-coloured jumper was a little baggy, but the colourful scarf was a well-considered accessory, giving a much-needed splash of colour. Her wavy, shoulder-length dark brown hair hadn’t fared well in the damp weather — slightly tousled and wet.

The glasses she took from her handbag looked expensive as she scanned the menu the young waiter had brought over.

She only wanted a pot of tea for one. So she wasn’t expecting company.

She had a slightly abrupt manner, which unsettled the young waiter as he enquired whether she had any preference for a particular tea. She didn’t. She curtly advised him.

Strangely, she asked for the bill to be brought with the tea, and no, she didn’t want anything to eat. Would she need to leave quickly? Why?

Turning towards the window, she pushed the chair back a little. She was almost peeking out from her hideaway, as if she didn’t really want to be seen.

The tea came. So did the bill, which she paid in cash — the correct amount.

After pouring a cup of tea, she reached into her handbag and produced a colourful, flowery notebook and a sleek pen. Thoughtfully, she nibbled the top of the pen, looking out into the street and waiting. Thinking.

A few seconds later, she started to write.

Without hesitation or pause for thought, she wrote and wrote. Page after page flowed without a break. Whatever was in her head was being rapidly transferred to the pages of the notebook — continuous thoughts, continuous pages. Finally, she stopped and took a sip of tea.

Something made her look up at the window.

She seemed startled. Unsure.

She put her pen down and quickly closed the notebook, lifting it from the table and slipping it gently into the pocket of her damp raincoat — not back into her handbag.

He was tall. Very handsome, in a rugged sort of way, with three-day stubble. His wavy, slightly greying hair gave him a distinguished air. The long black camel-hair coat concealed an expensive shirt and cravat. He remained dry beneath a wooden-handled umbrella held in his leather-gloved left hand.

With his right hand, he raised a finger and beckoned the woman at the table to come outside.

She hesitated at first, but he was insistent. He tapped gently on the window with his gloved index finger — a dull thud, thud, thud.

She seemed agitated, as if caught off guard. This wasn’t her plan, was it? This wasn’t how it was supposed to be.

Slowly, she rose from the table and retrieved her damp coat from the back of the chair, awkwardly slipping it on. Her movements were careful, deliberate. She picked up her handbag and turned away from the window.

She paused. Took a deep breath. Closed her eyes for a second. Then, drawing herself up, she strode confidently towards the door.

Through the window, the gentleman could be seen greeting her with a smile and an offered handshake. Not best of friends, then.

She ignored his hand. His smile vanished.

Her body language was strong now — decisive. Whatever she was saying, he hadn’t expected it. He seemed to shrink as he stood before her. No longer the distinguished, good-looking man, but a frightened little boy with nowhere to hide.

She reached into her pocket and produced the flowery notebook, waving it menacingly in his face, almost clipping his nose as it swept back and forth. His eyes followed every movement, never leaving it for a moment.

Then, after a few tense seconds, she slipped the notebook back into her coat pocket.

She still held the upper hand. Rain poured off his umbrella onto her head, streaming down her face, but she didn’t seem to notice. She had a lot to say — and this was her moment.

He didn’t utter a word.

His shoulders slumped. He stepped back, turned, and slowly walked away — a broken man.

She stood watching until he disappeared past the edge of the window.

Only then did she realise how wet she had become.

Tilting her head back, she let the rain wash over her face for a few seconds, as if cleansing her of everything that had gone before.

A small grin of self-satisfaction crossed her lips as she turned in the opposite direction. She pulled up her coat collar and took a step forward before reaching into her pocket.

Taking out the flowery notebook, she glanced at it, then looked over her shoulder. He was gone.

She dropped the notebook into a nearby bin.

Drawing herself up, the woman from the window strolled away into the rain-drenched cobbled streets.

David Baxter

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Author’s Note:
This was my first short story. I was sitting alone in a café in Bath on a rainy, windswept day, waiting to meet someone who would soon change my life forever. There were so many unanswered questions going through my mind.