From "The Woman in the Window" What's the time? Eleven A.M. He will be late coming to her. Always he is late coming to her. At the corner of Lexington and Thirty-seventh. Headed south. The one with the dark fedora, camel's-hair coat. Whistling thinly through his teeth. Not a tall man though he gives that impression. Not a large man but he won't give way if there's another pedestrian in his path. Excuse me, mister! Look where the hell you're going. Doesn't break his stride. Only partially conscious of his surroundings. Face shut up tight. Jaws clenched. Murder rushing to happen. The woman in the window, he likes to imagine her. He has stood on the sidewalk three floors below. He has counted the windows of the brownstone. Knows which one is hers. After dark, the lighted interior reflected against the blind makes of the blind a translucent skin. When he leaves her. Or, before he comes to her. Excerpted from Night-Gaunts and Other Tales of Suspense by Joyce Carol Oates All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
