The Man in the Window

by Jon Cohen

And when I was a young girl, too—the widows I knew all seemed born to it, seemed to use it as a source of power, even sustenance.” She got up and reached for his empty coffee cup. “But not me. The whole business is unnatural. It doesn’t fit me. It’s ten sizes too big.”

Louis could actually feel it, the oxygen around him that went unused, that entered his own lungs and made him dizzy with its richness.

And I’m not sure forgetfulness is our problem. It’s remembering. We have too much to remember. It gets in our way, distracts us, makes us believe we’re there when we’re really here.

Iris looked down at her bowl of oatmeal, which was about the most unmistakable and clear-cut bowl of oatmeal on the planet Earth, then up at her father.

“God watches, you know,” he said. “I’m not sure whether I believe in him or not, but in the moments I do believe, I know that he is a watcher, like me. He chooses not to intervene in the world. Why not? Because he figures he’s done enough and the rest is up to us? Or he wouldn’t know where to begin? Or because he’s in awe of his own miracle? That’s how I picture him, his mouth slightly agape, his eyes wide in disbelief. I think he has his own azalea, his own