With a regal, and slightly drunken poise, he placed the wine glass back on the desk. With the cigarette he was holding in his left hand and picking up a pen in his right, the man began to scribble down notes here and there on the notepad in front of him.
He wasn’t exactly sure as to how he was going to put this in writing, but a damn-fine try was in the works. Every now and again he would look to the window to his right and gaze into the night sky. It wasn’t a particularly large window, just big enough to see the moon, a few clouds and the top of a hill in the distance. And even that – a sight of an eerily mysterious midnight that spoke of haunted dreams to come in volumes – could not spark the fire of inspiration.
He drew in the smoke from the butt of the thin cigarette he had rolled for himself and after savoring the taste in his mouth for a second, or two, he blew out the smoke and watch it curl and twist into spindly spines and softly disappear in the midnight air.
He sighed. Why? Why was this so dreadful? Such depiction of the soul could hardly be this ridiculously despicable! If only the wine could … Yes! The wine!
With striking speed and grace he plucked his glass from the tables grasp and drank his fill of the red sloshing liquid. Instantly he felt rejuvenated.
Ah, he thought, now that is what I needed.
And with that he placed the tip of the pen ever so slightly on the notepad’s surface.
One minute passed.
On and on it went until minutes turned to hours, and hours turned to days, and days seemed to turn into years that rolled themselves into centuries…
Blast it all! He fumed. He threw the notepad, and the pen to the corner of his room. The wooden floors, the painting-decorated walls, and the cabinets that were mostly filled with broken wine bottles, pens, or screwed up scraps of paper, watched silently.
He looked around and then back down to his glass.
He rushed towards the cupboard by the window, reached out and pulled open the doors with such force that the doors themselves creaked at the hinges with pressure. A sign of pleasure or pain, the man did not know, but that was hardly an imposition upon his hurried and distracted thoughts. He pulled out one of the dusty bottles he kept in this cupboard and, without even getting a corkscrew, he managed to pry the cork from the bottle with none but his teeth.
Now, if someone were too peer in on this room from the window, some would say that they would get a ghastly fright.
They would see the bits of shattered glass in small piles over the floor; papers torn, and folded in a seemingly unnatural order; and the desk.
Neat, tidy and the sense of ancient history mixed with the crooked stench of hypocrisy and satisfaction. It was a true paradoxical feature of the room indeed!
Enthralled with desire for more wine, the man sat at the desk and poured some from the bottle into his glass. He swirled the contents with the utmost care and proceeded to let the succulent aroma gently reach his nostrils and he slowly let out a breath of serenity.
Grape – of course; most preciously squeezed and nurtured for years upon years.
A hint of an oak finish; and a slight caramel tint.
And something else of which the man could not pinpoint.
A truly gracious drink and one he would not devour by intent. Instead, he sipped, and let the fluid roll around his tongue and cheeks and slowly he swallowed: The after taste sweet with a slight twinge of bitterness.
Now, with the gusto of a man who had just received his first ever kiss from the most beautiful woman on God’s green earth, this man raced around and picked up the pen and paper, and sat back at his desk.
Ha! He thought victoriously. Now we will see!
He once again placed the pen to paper and this time, after however many minutes, hours, days or years had passed, the man finally started to write. And once he had finished, whilst sipping wine here and there, he placed his pen back down and looked at his masterpiece with a rather peculiar sense of finality and sadness.
He smiled, sat back in his chair and closed his eyes…
The man slept, and on he slept for the rest of the night. By early morning, when the first hint of dawn peaked her head over the distant mountain in the window, a bird landed on the windowsill.
Tilting its head to the side, it flew in and around the room until it landed on the desk. It looked up at the man snoozing in the chair, and after gazing at the glass, the three and a half empty wine bottles around him, the bird decided that whatever it did, the man was not going to wake.
It was just about to fly out when it spotted the piece of paper and the pen under its feet.
It peered down and after a minute, it discerned the words:
Good evening, my lady.
This is my last letter.
For I will never speak to anyone on this earth again.
I am His child and to Him I shall go.
Farewell, dear lady.
I will always miss, love, hate, and care for you.
The Man In The Room With The Single Window.