The Hidden Witness
The Hidden Witness
Seat 14A.
A man looks up from his paperback.
Three chapters left.
A bag of pretzels untouched.
The city sprawls beneath his wing.
Two window washers sway on ropes.
One keeps count of each careful stroke.
The other feels the strain in his grip.
Neither speaks.
Only the hiss of squeegee on glass,
and the empty air holding them up.
Seventh floor.
A tripod.
Binoculars glint in the window.
A woman pulls back—
quick, deliberate—
vanishing into the shadow of a tall plant.
Her breath stills.
As if the leaves could hide her.
What was she watching?
The man in the building across the way?
Someone farther off?
The question lingers,
suspended.
On the street,
a man points a camera upward.
Her eyes flick to him.
Too long.
A jolt:
he saw me.
One of the washers freezes.
Rope trembling.
His face inches from the glass.
He peers in.
Not wiping.
Watching.
Does he see her outline
among the leaves?
The moment holds—
a wire pulled tight.
Through the lens,
the photographer catches it all:
the plane cutting through pale sky,
the washers suspended midair,
the one window
with its half-hidden figure.
Everyone locked to their station:
one turning a page,
one dangling on a rope,
one pressed against the leaves,
one holding the frame steady.
Then—
the book reopens in 14A.
The pretzels crinkle.
And the city falls away.
As though none of it
ever happened.