Lighted Windows

The other night I was taking out the trash and saw, in a lighted window, a couple dancing. I couldn't hear the music. From a neighboring house came the sound of someone practicing the drums. I stopped, the trashbag handles cutting into my hand, and watched the couple. They were middle aged, the man dressed in a white shirt and dark sweater, the woman in light grey. They were looking straight at each other, smiling. The man clasped the woman's hand at shoulder height. I thought I saw the glimmer of a wedding ring. On a wall there was blue and white painting of a ship's anchor.

I have to admit, I'm a peeping Tom. I can't resist stopping for a moment in front of a lighted window. I like to look at the color of people's wall paint, their furniture, the art on the walls, at how many magnets they have on their fridge door. I like to watch what people do cocooned in that warm yellow light when they think no one is watching. Most often than not they take food out of the fridge or watch tv or sit around the dinner table eating and drinking and talking. Once I saw an old man exercising on one of those torturous-looking machines. Another time no people, just a four-post bed with baseball caps hanging atop each post. Or a bright red door in a cream-colored wall, like the entrance to some magical place. Ordinary things, and the quiet, almost boring rhythms of everyday life. And yet they fascinate me. Because even the smallest and careless of gestures, even the most ordinary of things, betray something about one's deepest self.