At exactly eight at night, a woman would be there by the window. A woman who was always thirsty. “Water”, was the only word she said. I am usually busy around that time of the day so my wife was usually the person who brings her a glass of water. My wife is a naturally kind person, more than that, she is always clear when it comes to personal hygiene, so she bought a separate light pink glass specifically for this woman.

One night, she was again there by the window. Exactly on time, at 8 pm. “Water”, she said. My wife was in the middle of kneading taro bread so she asked me: “Honey, could you”. Irritated, I ripped a couple pages out from the pad of paper I was writing on before I went to fetch the woman’s water. I poured a full glass of water before I approached our front room window. It was the first time I was able to study her via the illumination of the light cast out of the window from inside our front room. She had a full round face with full red lips. She wore a blue shirt the colour of wood thrush eggs with patchy spots all over them, her shirt sleeves were shredded to her armpits revealing her solid sun-tanned arms. Her faded soft pants cling to her thighs and lower legs, torn at the ball of her knees and at the hem of her pants. She did not appear to be mad the way my wife had described, even though her clothes were weathered and her hair was knotted and unkempt. She appeared more rebellious than crazy. She lifted the light pink glass to her lips, and swallowed the water in one gulp, then handed me the glass through the window with her left hand and with her right hand wiped off the dripping water on her lips. She smiled at me. In the soft light, she was both at the same time, demure and wild. A kind of beauty that was hard to contain. As she walked away, her round hips swayed, and her round buttocks and thighs rubbed against each other so suggestively that I couldn’t take my eyes off them. I placed her glass back onto the counter, where it was normally kept, and then back to my desk.

She was there another night when my wife was not home. I poured her a full glass of orange juice. She calmly took it and drank all the orange juice. I had the urge of wanting to know more about her. The prospect of finding out more about her excites me, but before I could ask her any questions, as I reached my hands through the window to take the empty glass back I accidentally touched her hand. I didn’t know why, but her touch startled me. It sent a strange shock through my body and left me stunned, silent, and shaken. The glass fell to the ground. She picked up the unbroken glass without much thought and placed it on the window sill. As she walked away, I stood there with my heart pounding and my blood pulsating, pumping rapidly through my veins.

In a week, I would typically pour a couple glasses of water for her, my wife was usually the person serving her, or my wife might ask one of her visitors to do it. Most of the time they would do it without much fuss. “Don’t mind her, she’s just a bit mad”, my wife would say. No different from how she answered me when I asked about the same thirsty woman. My wife’s self-assuring and confident manner left no room for questions, though they continued to be quietly curious about the stranger at my window every night at eight. While I on the other hand, personally, since the first time I met this woman, I could not get the image of her out of my mind. Who is she? Where does she live? Why would she consistently single my house out to ask for a drink to quench her thirst each night? Exactly at eight in the evening without fail. Eight o’clock only and not any other time during the day. As far as I know, people, in general, do not feel thirsty at different times during the day, not at the same time every day. Was she like a machine that had to be fed fluids on the clock at a predestined time? Or did she find something about my wife she likes: sincerity and self-assurance maybe, her giving nature, never asking or expecting anything in return? Perhaps it was just something random, something random she did without being aware of the fact that she did it by the clock, at the same time each day.

Admittedly she was a very attractive woman. She had this addictive kind of dark and bittersweet allure. I would close my eyes and imagine all the things she had gone through like she’s now mad because of some tragic heartache, and in her mind, she’s lost in a wasteland not a city full of people. Or she’s an angel sent down to earth to test the hearts of people… I would smile to myself. I can’t believe I’m even pondering such thoughts. Or worse, the fact that I wanted all of it to be true. I had hoped one day, for no reason at all, the woman would tell her teary tragic story. I would then reach for her hands through the window and hold them, and console her with all the words I could muster. What made me laugh audibly was that I believed we would have connected deeply, she would have these feelings for me, which I would have readily accepted. We would love each other in secret, through the window of the room at the front of our house. A strange and ridiculous dream. The strangest thing was that I was truly excited about the idea. I didn’t believe it was an act of betrayal towards the love my wife has for me. That night I dreamed of this woman. I saw myself jumping out of the window, grabbing her hand, and as fast as we could run away. Behind us, there was my wife with her head sticking out of the window looking at us, and she was laughing very hard, and aloud, tears came out of her eyes. 

After that dream, as it got closer to 8 o’clock in the evening, I grew more anxious. I couldn’t write a word. My heart raced, my legs fiddly, my eyes constantly glancing at the watch on my wrist, before lifting my eyes quietly towards the direction of the window at the front. Because as soon as I hear the word “water”, my heart would miss a beat, pounding like a drum alerting everyone to some kind of crisis. I would quietly wish that my wife was busy with something or another. When I hear my wife say “Honey, could you”, I’m flustered and would have already been on my feet, I would try my best to act calm, and I would deliberately slow down my footsteps towards the water cooler. I gave the stranger the glass of water accompanied by my most alluring smile through the window. But she didn’t notice. She took the glass of water, drank it, returned the glass, and smiled, but her smile felt to me rather awkward and detached. Then she left. Shyly I watched her leave. I would wait until she was out of sight before returning to my desk feeling dejected. I was vehemently upset with her.

Then after that, if my wife asked me to get the water, I pretended as though I didn’t hear her. My wife had to then wash her hands and bring the woman her water. I was pleased with myself. I thought it was the perfect revenge. “I’m sure she will miss me if I don’t bring her water, she will be desperate to see me!”. But this happiness was short-lived. As the sound of her footsteps retreated, I became more lost than before. I was more and more annoyed with myself. Red-faced. My fist tightened, my fingernails digging into the pad of my palm. I wanted to smash and throw what I could reach on the tiled floor, I wanted to break something, anything. I said to myself: “Crazy bitch, what a ghoul, bloody bitch”. But still, I could not stop thinking about her.

The storms came. The wind came. The gale came from all sides, all angles. The air was dense with humidity. The window was shut, and tightly latched. They were sad and pitiful days. I couldn’t eat, sit or sleep without thinking about her. Hoping she was safe under a roof somewhere. Anywhere safe, out of the wind and the wet. No one needs water under such wet circumstances. But still, I couldn’t stop myself from worrying. My eyes were glued to the window at the front of our house. I pictured her standing there waiting for the window’s doors to open. Her voice was drowned out by the gale. Her red lips are now blue because of the cold. Her knotted hair and her thin clothes soaked through. She waited and waited, her eyes would light up as soon as she heard any sound of movement inside our house, but she was devastated when there were no signs of our window opening up, and remained tightly shut. Or she might be on the ground, her hands cupping her face, she’s crying audibly, her shoulder lifting up and down spasmodically, her hiccups uncontrollable. But it was also possible that she would stand there only for a moment facing the window before she proceeds to turn around and left, walking away into the wind, rain, and gale. I couldn’t stand it anymore, so I rushed over to the front window of our house and opened it. “Honey, I just want to see how bad it is outside”, I said to my wife. My wife nodded and mumbled something or another, she was busy sewing a button onto a shirt. I opened the door of the window gently, so as not to startle her if she is outside, but also so I could have enough time to calm myself down. But she was not there. I looked at my wristwatch. It was exactly 8 O’clock. I closed the window, sighed, and went back to my desk to continue my work.

The next day, after the storm ceased, I couldn’t wait to open the window. My wife was in the kitchen at the back and was not there to witness my out-of-the-ordinary act. Then again, if she did, it wouldn’t have bothered her. I inhaled deeply, taking in the cool fresh air. I felt a kind of relief, much like stepping out of a stuffy bus full of people. I searched the surrounding area outside the window even though it was only four in the afternoon. I tried to see if I could find any sign of her in our front yard. There was nothing out of the ordinary except for a few puddles of water and fallen leaves. She didn’t turn up that night, nor did she the night after or the night after that. I was devastated. I lost so much weight and my wife couldn’t work out why. Some nights I would dream that she was flung across the front yard like a tiny leaf, with me standing there with my wife, we were holding a giant fan, we were fanning vigorously whatever that was in front of us into a completely silent vast boundless void. I chastised myself even though none of it was my fault, nor was I in full denial of the fact that I was the reason for the disappearance of the strange woman.

Life quietly passed by. My wife and I had been married by then for two years and we were planning on having a baby. It was an easy decision for me, as long as my wife feels comfortable with the idea. I have come to accept the fact that the passion within our marriage was more subdued. We no longer argue, or disagree, we still spoil each other, still loving, but something was lost and we could never get it back. Our secrets have been shared completely to the point that there’s nothing left to share. The fragile mist of allure now almost completely dissipated as though it had never been there. Though it could be only me who feels this way. Each night, in my sleep, quietly I would leave our bed, searching for something, I am not quite sure what. How silly would it be for me to believe that I was looking for that strange woman, what was more silly was the fact that I believed I no longer thought of her. Each night at eight, I’m startled by any sound outside the small front window of our house. The pitiful bitter memory sends me into a state of numbness impossible to describe. A brick within the wall of my heart had been pulled out. The hole remains unfillable by anything, it had left my soul exposed to the cold, the cruelty of the elements.

I decided to move my desk to the front room, placing it right by the small window I detested so much, because of the noise outside coming from the main road, that was before the time that woman began making an appearance. I moved the water cooler to one side and saw the light pink glass. It was faced down, quiet and silent next to the other four glasses and the Philips HR-2061 food processor. I picked it up and looked at it, I turned it with my fingers and tried to remember how those plump red lips had touched it. Then I lifted the glass to my lips to the part of the brim of the glass where I thought she would sip the water. I was breathless and shaken as though I was about to kiss her lips, not just to take a sip of water from the glass. My wife’s footsteps startled me. Quickly, I placed the light pink glass back down next to the other glasses. “It’s been ages since she’s turned up, yeah?”. My wife said. “Don’t mind her, she’s just a bit mad”. I replied.

Perhaps she’s now at some mental institute if she was truly crazy in the first place. If not mad so what. The city is dishing out awards for those who were willing to hand in these people wandering around in the street. And it’s very possible that she will never come back. That’s also good for her, she doesn’t have to put up with living in such a rat race. And if she’s cured. The pain of her past finally healed. She no longer has to play the role of a rebel. She has returned to normality, living a normal life. She can again hope and love. Instead of being happy for her, I was full of resentment and regret. What if when she’s hurt again, she discovers that being a rebel and a bit mad was a better way to live. She can pull herself away from the innumerable number of bland brave faces and discover once more her once-lost flame of rebellious freedom. And maybe one day, one may never know, she might stop by my window, at 8 O’clock in the evening, with the single thirsty desire: “water”. But it was also possible, even though I didn’t want to entertain the idea, that she might already be dead.

Each night, I would pour myself a glass full of water, and I would drink it in one gulp. My wife suspects nothing because she was born not to suspect anything.