It Wasn't A Whisper

I saw the window cleaner last night. They come out at night, scrambling up on their scaffolds to clean the windows that only they can reach. In the middle of the night, I will awaken to the dull thud as one of their scaffolds bang against the glass.

Here's the crazy part: sometimes when I wake up, I can hear my name being called. I know that the glass and the walls are too think to hear anything from the city outside but still, I hear it. Only when Atlantica is is dead silent, but still I hear my name called.

Last night I couldn't sleep. It's been a busy week as everyone brought in their swimsuits to be repaired after the holiday. My fingers ache from all the stitching and I just couldn't settle down. I was awake in the darkness of my room. I had the shades open so I could see the city.

The scaffold came down around three in the morning. A thin waif of a girl scrubbed my window. I don't think she saw me. She was wearing an ugly jumpsuit that covered her body but her hair, oh my. Her hair was red and tied back in a ponytail. Maybe it was the city lights, but her hair was like fire in the darkness.

She cleaned my windows and I watched her. I was too afraid to move. I wondered if she was the one who said my name at night.

I had my anwser. She reached between her legs with the end of her scrub brush. Right outside my window, she humped her brush. Her legs braced wide, she rubbed against her brush as she leaned her head against the glass.

Her body shook. She stopped moving her hips and I heard her say my name, like a faint whisper. That's when I realized that it wasn't a whisper. It was a scream.

The window cleaner moved the scaffold down. I got up and looked at the glass. I could see where her head had sweated against the glass.

I tried to go back to sleep but I couldn't stop thinking about her. The sun came up and I saw the smear of her sweat, the only proof that it wasn't a dream.