Tuesday at 10:17

At first, Mara noticed the time because the microwave clock was wrong.

It was seven minutes fast.

She knew this because every Tuesday night, when she carried a mug of tea into the living room, the man in the building opposite appeared at his window at exactly 10:17.

According to the microwave, it was 10:24.

That was how precise the routine became.

Mara was forty. She worked in payroll, lived alone and had reached the stage of adulthood where routines were less a sign of discipline than a convenient way to make weeks disappear.

Tuesday meant late supermarket shopping.

Laundry.

Tea.

A crime series she pretended not to like.

And, for reasons she could not have explained without sounding strange, the man opposite.

He never did anything interesting.

That was part of the appeal.

At 10:17 he entered the room.

Sometimes he carried a book.

Sometimes a glass of water.

Once he spent twenty minutes trying to untangle headphones.

He was far enough away that Mara could not make out details, but near enough that gestures became familiar.

He rubbed the back of his neck when reading.

He opened the window even in cold weather.

He had a plant that was visibly losing a battle with life.

Mara had named the plant Bernard.

Not the man.

Naming the man would have felt excessive.

The first time he looked directly at her, she almost dropped her tea.

She had been standing beside her own window.

Not hiding.

Not really watching.

The man glanced up.

Paused.

Mara stayed where she was.

He raised one hand.

A small gesture.

She raised hers.

Then both returned to their evenings.

The following Tuesday, at 10:17, he waved first.

After that, it became a ritual.

Nothing more.

That mattered.

Mara had no interest in turning every pleasant thing into a project.

She had spent years doing that.

Relationships needed definitions.

Friendships needed plans.

Work needed objectives.

The man opposite required nothing.

He appeared.

She appeared.

They acknowledged one another.

That was enough.

Until the Tuesday he didn't.

At 10:17, the window remained dark.

Mara waited.

10:21.

Nothing.

She watched the crime series.

At 10:36 she looked again.

Still dark.

She felt foolish for caring.

At 11:02 she went to bed.

The following Tuesday, the window lit at 10:17.

Mara was already there.

The man appeared wearing what looked like a hospital wristband.

Even from across the street, she could see the white strip around his wrist when he lifted his hand.

Mara frowned.

He looked towards her.

Then held up a piece of paper.

OK.

She laughed with relief she had not expected to feel.

She found a marker.

GOOD.

He responded:

SORRY.

Mara wrote:

FOR WHAT?

A pause.

Then:

MISSING TUESDAY.

That was the first time their routine became personal.

Mara wrote:

ACCEPTABLE EXCUSE.

He laughed.

Or she thought he did.

The next week he appeared with another sign.

NAME?

Mara hesitated.

Then wrote:

MARA.

He disappeared.

Returned with:

JAMES.

Bernard, she realised, would remain the plant.

Their signs expanded.

WORK?

PAYROLL.

James responded:

CONDOLENCES.

She laughed.

YOU?

ARCHITECT.

PRETENTIOUS.

CORRECT.

Over the next month they learned only what could fit comfortably on paper.

Mara had a brother in Perth.

James had a sister in Brisbane.

Mara hated running.

James hated coriander.

Mara owned no pets.

James wrote:

PLANT.

She pointed towards Bernard.

He gave her an offended expression.

Mara wrote:

DYING PLANT.

James held up:

RECOVERING.

Bernard was absolutely not recovering.

One Tuesday it rained heavily.

Water ran down both sets of windows and distorted James into a blurred silhouette.

Mara pressed close to the glass.

He did the same.

James wrote something.

She couldn't read it.

He tried again with larger letters.

COFFEE?

Mara stared.

This was the moment she had somehow known would arrive.

The routine had worked because it was contained.

A rectangle of light.

Ten seventeen.

Tuesdays.

Coffee would make him real.

Real people disappointed you in ways silhouettes could not.

James waited.

Mara wrote:

WHEN?

His answer:

SATURDAY?

She looked at the rain.

Then back at him.

YES.

Saturday afternoon, Mara arrived early at a café halfway between their buildings.

James was already there.

That irritated her.

He stood when he saw her.

She recognised him immediately and not at all.

He was forty-three.

Taller than he looked through the window.

Grey at the temples.

A little thinner than she had imagined.

He looked at her and smiled.

“Mara?”

“Unless there are multiple women here who stare at you every Tuesday.”

“Fair.”

They sat.

For the first three minutes the conversation was dreadful.

Weather.

Coffee.

The neighbourhood.

Then James said, “Bernard is doing better.”

Mara laughed so loudly that someone at the next table looked over.

“No, he isn't.”

“He is.”

“He's mostly sticks.”

“Those are branches.”

“They're evidence.”

That fixed it.

James was funny in a quiet way.

He had spent the missing Tuesday in hospital after an appendicitis scare that turned out to be something less serious.

He lived alone too.

Had been divorced four years.

Loved old buildings.

Disliked small talk despite being surprisingly good at it.

Mara told him she had nearly named him.

“What?”

“The plant got the name instead.”

James looked offended.

“You named my plant before me?”

“You weren't dying as visibly.”

“Harsh.”

They talked for two hours.

When they left, neither knew whether it had been a date.

Mara liked that.

At the crossing James said, “Tuesday?”

She smiled.

“Obviously.”

Then he hesitated.

“Friday?”

Mara looked at him.

“Dinner?”

“Yes.”

“Your place or mine?”

James glanced towards his building.

“Mine?”

“Bernard inspection.”

He laughed.

“Fine.”

Friday arrived.

Mara went to James's apartment with a bottle of wine and unreasonable curiosity about the room she had spent months seeing only as a rectangle of light.

Bernard was worse up close.

She stood in front of the plant.

“James.”

“He's recovering.”

“He's compost with ambition.”

“Cruel.”

They cooked.

Badly.

Drank wine.

Talked until the city outside had gone mostly dark.

At ten seventeen, Mara noticed the time.

James did too.

They both looked towards the window.

Her apartment glowed across the street.

Empty.

“That’s strange,” she said.

“What?”

“Seeing mine from here.”

James stood beside her.

“You've been in that window every Tuesday for months.”

“So have you.”

They looked at each other.

The old distance was gone.

Mara's pulse changed.

James reached for her hand.

“Can I kiss you?”

“Yes.”

He did.

It was careful for perhaps five seconds.

Then Mara put both hands on his face and kissed him harder.

James's arms went around her.

They backed away from the window.

Then Mara stopped.

“No.”

James blinked.

“No?”

“Window.”

He looked towards it.

“You want to stay here?”

Mara laughed softly.

“I've spent months looking at you through it.”

James understood.

He kissed her again in front of the glass.

Mara pulled his shirt off.

James unbuttoned hers.

Her bra followed.

He looked at her bare chest.

Mara liked the fact that his gaze felt familiar.

The watching had started long before touch.

She took his hand and placed it on her breast.

“Better?”

“Much.”

James kissed her neck.

Mara reached down and felt his erection through his trousers.

“Also better.”

He laughed.

They undressed without rushing.

For the first time, Mara stood naked in the exact room she had been watching every Tuesday.

She walked to the window.

Her apartment was directly opposite.

Dark.

James stood behind her.

His hands settled on her waist.

“You okay?”

“Yes.”

His mouth touched her shoulder.

Mara leaned back against him.

James's hand slid down her stomach.

Between her legs.

She opened them slightly.

He touched her slowly.

Mara watched their reflection in the glass.

Two bodies where for months there had only been one.

Her breath fogged the window.

James used two fingers inside her while his thumb worked her clit.

Mara gripped the sill.

“Fuck.”

He kissed the back of her neck.

She moved against his hand.

The city outside blurred.

The old Tuesday ritual had always been quiet.

This was not.

Mara came against his fingers with James holding her upright.

When her legs steadied, she turned.

“My turn.”

She pushed him into the chair beside Bernard.

James laughed.

“The plant gets to watch?”

“He deserves something before he dies.”

“Harsh.”

Mara knelt between his legs.

Wrapped her hand around his cock.

James stopped laughing.

She stroked him slowly.

Then took him into her mouth.

His hand touched her hair.

Mara looked up.

The expression on his face made her take him deeper.

James groaned.

“Jesus.”

She pulled back.

“Still think Friday was a good idea?”

“Extremely.”

Mara smiled and went back down on him.

When he was close, she stopped.

James stared.

“Why?”

“Because I want this.”

She stood and opened his bedside drawer.

“Condom?”

James pointed to the back.

Mara found one.

“Prepared.”

“I was hopeful.”

“Honest.”

She put it on him.

Then straddled him in the chair.

James's hands went to her hips.

Mara lowered herself onto his cock.

Both froze at the first deep stretch.

“Okay?”

“Yes.”

She began to move.

The chair creaked.

Bernard remained judgementally half-dead beside them.

Mara laughed once.

“What?”

“This is not how I imagined Tuesday nights.”

James pulled her closer.

“Better?”

Mara rolled her hips.

“Much.”

She rode him in front of the window, hands on his shoulders, feeling him fill her with every downward movement.

James kissed her breasts.

Mara moved faster.

The pressure built again.

James stood without leaving her body and turned them towards the bed.

Mara wrapped her legs around him.

He laid her down.

Then fucked her harder.

Mara's head fell back.

“Don't stop.”

“I won't.”

She touched herself while he moved inside her.

James watched.

That made her fingers work faster.

Mara came again around him.

James followed, thrusting deep and holding there.

Afterwards they lay side by side.

The microwave clock in the kitchen read 12:41.

Seven minutes fast.

Mara laughed.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

James looked towards the window.

“Tuesday?”

Mara turned onto her side.

“Still Tuesday.”

“Even after this?”

“Especially after this.”

The following Tuesday, at 10:17, Mara was back in her own apartment.

James appeared across the street.

He held up a sign.

MISS ME?

Mara wrote:

FRIDAY.

James:

THAT'S NOT AN ANSWER.

Mara smiled.

Then wrote:

YES.

A second later she added:

AND BERNARD IS STILL DYING.

James held the plant up protectively.

Mara laughed.

Some rituals survived escalation perfectly well.