Do the Painted Windows Open?

The window shows a midnight garden: no glass, no latch, no cold. I set the envelope beside the plastic pears. “Read it before we go.” The tap has never carried water. The oven clock is only paint. Four chairs wait around a supper no one cooked and no one ate. You square the silver cushions, turn each price tag out of sight. I slide the form toward your elbow. You say, “Not here. Not tonight.” Then you lift my portfolio before the blue spray lands. You trace the doorway with one finger. “This turn is far too tight. A chair can’t make that corner. You have to give the body room.” I watch your hand redraw the entrance like it’s something you once knew. Do the painted windows open? Can the cardboard garden grow? Do the families in the brochure ever age or ever go? You can name the weight of ceilings. You can make a hallway breathe. Do the painted windows open? Will you open this with me? You correct my roofline in the margin, move the stairwell from the wall, mark a wider turning circle in the shadow of the hall. Then your thumb stops at the sentence: “Place offered; funding confirmed.” One blank line waits underneath it. One decision waits for you. I ask you where you learned this. You fold the cleaning cloth just so. The showroom music keeps on smiling. You say, “There are things you don’t know.” “Every room has hidden figures no drawing ever shows: who pays to keep the heating, who leaves when the money goes.” I say, “Then help me draw that too. Don’t make the doorway small. If the page has left those people out, teach me to include them all.” Do the painted windows open? Can the cardboard garden grow? Do the families in the brochure ever age or ever go? You can name the weight of ceilings and the weight they never show. Do the painted windows open? Why are you afraid I’ll go? You say, “I drew rooms after evening shifts with your cot beside my chair. Charcoal lived beneath my nails, milk powder in my hair. The bursary lost funding. Night cleaning paid on time. I said I’d only miss one term. That term became my life. “Do not make a saint of me. I chose the road I knew. But I read the costs beside your offer and saw my fear in you. If I sign and you don’t make it, you will learn what wanting costs.” I place the pen between us. “Your life is not a warning. I am not your second chance. You taught me rooms should fit the people, not force people to fit plans. If I fail, I’ll tell you plainly. But let the risk be mine.” Painted windows never open. Cardboard gardens do not grow. Families in the brochure never age and never go. But you read the cost beside me, then you write your name with care. Painted windows never open. We don’t have to live in there. The cleaning cart waits by the perfect kitchen. You push the service bar. The hinge gives one low note. Outside air lifts every page. You catch them with your cleaning shoe, then leave the real door open.