It was a good choice for wine.
I should start with that.
When the phone rang, it took me a moment to process what the concierge had just said. I played the words over in my mind: "Sir, you have a guest who says she is expected."
I had sent no invitations. There was no date set for the evening, and I noted the concierge had said, "she."
It could only mean one thing. The woman in the window in the building over there.
I looked on the screen showing the lobby, and there you were, looking familiar and fabulous and, unusual for us, fully clothed. I noted that you had brought wine in a gift bag and I smiled. It was a promising sign: wine is a good omen.
"Yes," I answered. "She's expected. You can send her up."
I had been away for on a professional trip for almost a month and had only arrived from the airport late the previous night. As is always my practice, I had unpacked first thing in the morning, and, after sending the laundry to the service, I sent the luggage down to the storage floor. Thankfully, the cleaning service had visited while I was away, and so the penthouse was immaculate.
Without having to do any last-minute tidying up, I could spend the moments when you were coming up wondering what was about to unfold.
I heard the bell in the hallway announcing the arrival of the elevator, and then the sound of your footsteps (She's wearing heels, I thought) before three confident taps at the door sounded.
As I opened the door, we both stood for a moment in silence, just looking at each other, the smallest hint of mischief hiding in our respective smiles.
"A pleasure to meet you," I said.
"Oh, the pleasure is mine," you replied.
And then we our smiles opened fully, radiating a joy of being in each other's presence for the first time.
"I brought you some wine," you said, placing the bag in my hand
"I hope you brought US some wine," I answered.
"Well, yes, I believe I'll have some too. I somehow thought that you would like reds."
"If it's wet, I'm sure I'll enjoy it very much," I said.
"Well, it's certainly wet," you replied without acknowledging the double entendre.
"What did you bring? I think the wines we choose are like a biography," I said as I pulled the bottle from its bag. A Rhone Valley Syrah emerged.
"Spicy," you began, "...with notes of cocoa and blackberries, and it has a great finish that stays with you. At least that's what they said at the wine store. I liked that description, so I thought we might explore it together."
"That's quite a bio!"
"Well," you answered. "I'm spicy, but I suppose we'll have to find out the rest for ourselves."
"Why don't you join me in the living room. I think you'll find that it has a lovely view," I offered with faux innocence.
"Really?" you asked with asked with equally unconvincing naΓ―vetΓ©. "I'd love to see it."
"I'll pour you a glass while you have a look out the window. I'm pretty sure you'll see what I mean."
"Thanks," you said as you walked into the living room."
When I entered the room with the two glasses you had chosen my favorite swivel chair, the one facing the window.
"Mind if I sit here," you asked.
"Of course not, my house is your house."
"You must love to be in this chair, looking out at that view." We were both looking through the window and there, in the center of my window, was your apartment. It was completely exposed and yet the design of the building and the height of my penthouse ensured that whatever I could easily see in the interior of your apartment was completely hidden from the lower floors.
"Yes, I confess, it has brought me much pleasure to look out that window. It's quite a sight to behold."
"Mmm hmm.... I'm sure that's true."
"This wine IS spicy," I said after my first sip. "Shall we drink a toast?"
"What should we toast to?"
"To the views," I said.
"To the views," you replied.
As we drank there was a silence that fell between us. Not awkward at all, but it was clear that we were both inside our heads, remembering scenes, realizing how much history we already shared, and yet all without really knowing a thing about each other.
As our glasses were slowly emptied, we made small talk that gradually eased into sharing our life stories. You were coming out of a relationship and your recent move was a chance to spend time on your own rediscovering yourself and creating a healthier, more complete version of you.
As for me, I spoke of my work, an amicable divorce some years ago, and the travel that inevitably comes with my profession. The apartment was a refuge after the trips abroad. A quiet, private space, I explained.
"Perhaps not so private," you said with a smile.
I smiled back.
"Well, not recently. Sometimes things take an unexpected turn."
"So, your...recent experiences with our window here are uncommon?"
"Quite!" I said. "It isn't that I wouldn't allow myself to be seen by someone; I've enjoyed many a walk on Lucy Vincent Beach wearing only a suntan, but ... at home ... that's a bit dangerous, no?"
"Dangerous is an interesting word."
"Well, you ... you know where I live. I'm not an anonymous person walking down a sandy beach. I'm...."
"You're the man in Penthouse A, and I'm the woman who lives in that apartment right over there."
Now there was a different kind of silence: this one was charged with an implied challenge. I liked this aspect of you; not weak, a woman with a strong will. That thought triggered a memory.
"In your ... reply to my letter, you mentioned that you 'willed' me to wake up. I found that word very interesting. Do you think you can 'will' someone to do something that you want them to do?"
"You woke up, didn't you?" you answered.