The Sign In Sidney Brustein's Window Novels & Stories

We had an understanding, so it seemed. I walked until Brittany's voice thinned out in my head, and then kept walking anyway, past the fountain in the park where I'd sat last time, past the bodega, past a flower cart that smelled aggressively of something sweet, until the studio window appeared. I stopped outside it, glanced at the card Nate had given me the day before and wondered if I really wanted to go in. Through the window I could see the room — people inside, older, clustered around easels with wine glasses, laughing at something.

Across the city, Bridget sat by her window, sipping wine, a sly smile playing at the corner of her lips. The game had begun.

I threw off the covers, went to the window, and shoved the heavy curtain aside. A black SUV sat directly across the street with dark windows, its engine idling as a faint cloud of exhaust rose into the freezing air. I stared at it, telling myself it was a coincidence and telling myself to breathe. Then the passenger window rolled down. Sebastian Wolfe leaned one massive arm out into the night and looked straight up at my apartment, straight at me, certain, like a man who had been waiting long enough and had no intention of waiting anymore. He lifted two fingers in a slow, lazy salute and smiled.

He replied and bent to scratch at Kenell’s head. “Rhoda.” It was Bryan who answered and Cedric stiffened in response, not believing his ears. “You don’t say…” he walked toward the window, searching for her, only to turn to them, a confused look written all over his face. “I don’t see her.” Aine walked over to him and turned him to the window once again. It was those tinted kinds where you could see what was happening on the outside, but those on the outside could not see within.

Couldn't see through the glass windows smoked; it was up to you to guess who worked there. Instead, the windows reflected images: a group of men in suits, a few well-dressed women carrying bags of shopping, a beggar sprawled on the sidewalk begging. Nav's work was brilliant and made you think. I was very happy with your presentation. at Galerie Beau Soleil. The man next to me sniffed and I saw him jotting down question marks on his margin of a document. I went back to my email to Theresa.

I love it. A small bulletproof window inside the tiny lobby is located on the right-hand side of the door I walk in through. The walls are painted white over cinderblock with no decorative embellishments at all. I walk over and press the buzzer to the side of the window. It takes about sixty seconds for Meagan to leave her desk and walk to the service window. Her eyes grow large when she sees me. “Hi, Meagan, how are you?” I say with a smile. It’s clear she’s unsure how exactly she should answer and that’s too damn bad. She has a slight look of horror on her face as she examines my stitches and bruising. Today I make orange look good.

I went to take a shower after dinner. It was then that I suddenly saw a weird palm print on the glass window. Someone must have left that palm print behind with their soapy hand while taking a shower. The print was quite faint and white against the shiny glass on the window. It was obviously a woman's handprint, and it wasn't mine. My hand was a little bigger than this. So I couldn't have been the one who put it there. It couldn't have been my daughter, Bella Quinton, either. She had tiny hands and wasn't even tall enough to reach that spot yet. Also, it definitely did not belong to my husband, Rory Quinton.

was the catchphrase from the advertisements—and the old line had never been more inviting. The fantasy dissipated as his gaze passed over the emergency escape window near the kid from the stop. Next to the window was a small box where a BREAK IN CASE OF EMERGENCY hammer should have be tied. Yet was not. Tears in the seating, scuffs on the handlebars. Alert wires sagged in long, thin smiles. Graffiti scratched into the glass on Steve’s right. Peeling warning stickers covered the walls, a faded cardboard advertisement for Wrigley’s Extra Sugar-Free Gum.

It looked like hell had opened its gates for a quick drink of ice water. She filed out, people rushing around her and checking their watches. Bethany looked around, trying to get her bearings before noticing a large sign on the wall that displayed a map. She moved toward it, working not to get run over by the suits that filled the large lobby. McKenzie and Bryant was on the twenty-eighth floor, the view from their windows most likely incredible.

Briggs: Interesting. A pause from him, then: Briggs: Because I can see your car. My heart skips. What? Briggs: Parkway. My breath stills. Briggs: And your silhouette. I froze. Briggs: You’re standing by the window. My head snaps toward the glass, the curtain is slightly parted. Shit. My phone buzzes again, a picture of my car parked exactly where I left it. Then another; the building, and then a blurred shot of the window.