Then there were lovers. Sometimes there was a little window, sometimes the glass was thicker than ever. It isn't much fun to try to make love to someone through a pane of glass, even with a window. And they said the glass wasn't there either...at first. Later on, they would see it was there and then they'd be angry with me, as if it were my doing. I was used to feeling isolated. I spent a lot of time thinking about the man who had found the largest window before my parents slammed it shut. I always wondered if that window would have been large enough for one of us to climb through.
One day I turned to talk to you, and the glass looked very thin. I was surprised; I could hear you easily and everything you said made perfect sense instead of sounding all mumbly. I had already come up with a different theory, with an idea for heading off in the direction opposite the glass, but this was too arresting to walk away from. I didn't have to shout. I didn't have to strain to hear. You were interesting and funny. And...the glass wasn't there. It was just gone. It was like you were right on this side of the world. Maybe I imagined it wasn't there. Maybe it was too thin to see. Who knows? They said I wasn't safe and they put up a big wall of concrete there, said you wanted it. I caught a glimpse of you behind a section of thick, cloudy glass and you said yes, concrete, please quit trying to break the concrete wall down... I miss you so much. I hate the concrete.