The Living Room Light

The Living Room Light

The wind was cold... it only intensified the feeling of isolation. She hurried along the cold streets, looking into windows. They were like snapshots, warm glowing insights into the lives of people who were content. A family sitting down to dinner, a living room where husband and wife were reading the newspaper together while the children did homework, an elderly couple playing chess in front of the window... she knew that her own window was dark and cold. She knew she was young still; in fact, she wasn't even certain she ever wanted to have children. But what she did want was what all her friends slowly had found while she had remained behind. She was only twenty-seven. She didn't expect to suddenly have the perfect suburban life, with the white picket fence, two and a half children, and a dog. But she had watched as one by one, through and after college, as her friends slowly got married, moved away, found new companions. She had, too many times for it to be special anymore, been a "maid" of honor. Always a maid, performing that last final service in the friendship before the friend went to live her happily ever after. No one ever thinks about what happens to the rest of the characters in the story, she thought. No one ever knows. All she wanted, in reality, was that same happiness that it seemed they all had found. Heaven knows she didn't deserve it, but she could want it all the same, couldn't she? She wanted to be content.
She walked up the stairs to her cold apartment, above the coffee shop. The air wasn't cold; it was simply the emptiness that made it so. She tossed aside the tote and purse from work, kicked off her shoes. Her day of work wasn't over, hardly had begun. In the industry, the night life is where the deals are made. It's where you find the next big model, where the ideas are found, how you figure out what the trends are. She opens up her walk-in closet, full of flirty black and red dresses, more shoes than Imelda Marcos, and hangers and stacks full of designer label clothes, most of them bearing Her name. It was her one accomplishment; while her old friends vacuumed, she had created a clothing line that celebs vied for. She had made the dress the President's daughter had worn to his inauguration ceremony. She met with celebs all over for lunch, to plan their wedding gowns or the dress for the next premier. By all measures, she was a success.
She put on a black dress, stiletto heels, and grabs a black wrap to throw over it all. It would work. She piles on some sweet vintage jewelry, all of which she had bought for herself. Except for the few pieces her grandmother had given her. Other than that, not one piece had been a gift from a guy. Nope, not one.
She left the apartment again, and locked the door behind her. The lights in her front window had never even been turned on. She bustled away, wondering what the night would bring. Perhaps tonight would be the last night the living room light stayed off. Maybe tomorrow, she would eat at home, with a companion, and create a portrait of her own. Perhaps tomorrow, she would be the subject for the art, rather than the creator of it. Perhaps... no, never. It would never happen. There are those who act, and there are those who write the script.
When she came home again hours later, she dragged wearily up the stairs. She unlocked the door, went inside. Curiously, and in a partial stupor from the partying at the club, she stumbles for the living room. She reaches for the switch, flicks it on. Nothing happens. She turns it off and tries again. Still no light. Figures, she thought. It's broken. With that, she kicks off her shoes and falls back to her room, to sleep atop her Egyptian cotton sheets. It's broken. It won't work and it never will. With that final thought, she drifted off to sleep.