The Window

I have one window.

Apparently this is a problem.

Not according to me. I've lived here for almost three years and the window has performed its duties adequately.

It lets light in.

It lets me see outside.

Occasionally it lets water in, but only when the wind comes from the southwest, and I've learned not to leave anything important on the sill.

Patch thinks I should move.

He has compiled a list of suitable apartments.

I haven't asked him to.

He says my current living conditions are having a measurable effect on my psychological well-being.

I asked how he measured that.

He said I complain about the apartment an average of 4.7 times per week.

I told him complaining about something doesn't mean you want to change it.

He said that was an interesting philosophy.

I said thank you.

He said it wasn't a compliment.

Anyway.

The window overlooks a courtyard.

It's not a particularly interesting courtyard.

There's a tree, some bins, a service entrance, and a piece of machinery that's been standing beside the opposite wall for as long as I've lived here.

I don't know what the machine does.

Neither does Patch.

This bothers him enormously.

He has identified the manufacturer, approximate production year, probable power requirements, and seventeen possible applications.

He hasn't been able to identify the actual model because the identification plate faces the wall.

He asked me to go downstairs and look.

I said no.

He asked why.

I said because I didn't care.

He said curiosity is an important component of cognitive development.

I said so is knowing when to leave things alone.

He said that was not a recognized developmental principle.

I said it should be.

The machine is still there.

Patch checks it every morning.

I know because he tells me.

Sometimes I think he's hoping it'll move.

There's also a tree.

I don't know what kind.

Patch does, obviously.

He told me once.

I forgot.

He told me again.

I forgot again.

Now he refuses to tell me unless I demonstrate a genuine interest in botany.

So it's a tree.

It loses its leaves in autumn and grows them again in spring, which seems like a lot of unnecessary work.

The branches reach almost to my window.

In summer they block some of the light.

In winter I can see the apartments opposite.

There's an old man on the third floor who sits by his window most evenings.

I think his name is Oskar.

He waves sometimes.

I wave back.

We've never actually spoken.

Patch says we've exchanged visual greetings on thirty-five occasions.

I asked whether he counts everything.

He said no.

I asked what he doesn't count.

He said that was difficult to quantify.

Fair enough.

The heating stopped working again this morning.

Not completely.

Just enough that the apartment felt like somewhere you'd store vegetables.

The building system said the temperature was within the acceptable range.

Seventeen degrees.

I asked Patch what the acceptable range was for the people who designed the building.

He said he didn't have access to their residential records.

I said that wasn't what I meant.

He said he knew.

Which is worse.

I opened the controller.

Loose connection.

Same one as last winter.

Took about four minutes to fix.

The building immediately registered an unauthorized maintenance event.

Apparently I'm not certified to repair my own heating.

I am, however, certified to repair the environmental systems in several municipal facilities containing equipment worth more than this entire building.

Patch says those are different certifications.

I said I know.

He said then I should understand the distinction.

I told him I understand lots of stupid things.

He said that was reassuring.

The building wants to send an inspector.

I've scheduled the appointment for March 2197.

Patch says that's irresponsible.

I said I'll probably have moved by then.

He said there's insufficient evidence to support that assumption.

He's probably right.

Oh.

The chair.

I should mention the chair.

I have one decent chair, if you use the word decent generously.

Found it beside a recycling station two years ago.

Somebody had thrown it out because one of the legs was broken.

I fixed the leg.

Now the other three are slightly shorter.

Patch says this is geometrically impossible.

I said he hasn't sat in it.

He said he doesn't have a body.

I said exactly.

The chair lives beside the window because that's where the light is best.

This morning Patch suggested moving it to the opposite wall to improve the room's spatial efficiency.

I asked whether the opposite wall had a window.

He said no.

I asked whether he'd considered that.

He said yes.

I asked whether he'd considered that I might like looking outside.

He said the view was of limited aesthetic value.

I told him the view was none of his business.

He said it was literally the subject of our conversation.

I hate it when he does that.

Anyway, I left the chair where it was.

Sat there for a while after work.

The heating was working.

The machine hadn't moved.

Oskar was at his window.

He waved.

I waved back.

Then a bird landed on the tree.

Small thing. Brownish. Looked annoyed.

Patch identified it immediately.

I told him I didn't want to know.

He said fine.

We sat there for a bit.

Well, I sat.

Patch did whatever Patch does.

After a while I asked him what kind of bird it was.

He said he'd already been told I wasn't interested.

I said I'd changed my mind.

He said that was becoming a pattern.

I told him to stop being difficult.

He told me the name of the bird.

I've forgotten it.

Anyway.

I think I'll keep the chair by the window.