the woman

she spent her days packing and unpacking her collection of cold war era soviet citizen clothing. all items were washed, pressed and folded carefully into layers of tissue paper before being put away. her expression was one of distant worry. her mannerisms described quite urgency. when she looked up from her task at all, it was to stare beyond her curtain-less window, hands frozen mid-fold and listen for a moment before resuming her work.

the women on the street talked about her in an unkind way. they mocked her pointless and repetitive behavior (which they could see through the window) and often broke out into cruel laughter when one of them imitated her movements. i never stopped them even though i didn't share their disdain. in fact, i brought the woman food and would often spend afternoons in her apartment quietly reading a book after cleaning up our lunch dishes. the woman never gave any indication that my presence mattered to her, but i just thought sometimes it would help her if she was not alone.

from time to time when i was out having fun the woman would cross my mind. i would shake my head to empty her presence and look for the closest thing to make me happy.