The Woman in the Yellow Dress
The story of a man searching for hope and meaning in his later years
The old man was killing himself at his office job—a fact he liked to share with others.
“I’m just killing myself at this job," he would often say when someone asked how he’d been or what he was up to.
He would soon learn that it wasn’t wise to put that out in the universe.
There was a cafe where he ate lunch two or three times a week and where the staff knew him by his first name. He liked going there because, since he’d been divorced, he’d remained single and lived alone, so visiting a place where people called him by his name made it feel like he had the close friends he’d been missing.
”How goes the battle today, Peter?” the 30-something barista asked as he walked in. Her name was Kayla, and he thought she was the friendliest, nicest person he’d met since moving to the old oil town.
“You know, same old, same old,” he said, and retrieved the coffee she’d made for him when she saw his truck pull-in to the parking lot.
Kayla knew his order and made it just the way he liked it.
Peter chose his usual table in the corner by the window, then pulled out his chair and sat down.
A different server took his order—turkey and provolone with fries—and Peter scrolled through his newsfeed. When his sandwich arrived, he ate it halfheartedly. It wasn’t really good, but it was cheap, and the cafe was close to work, so he made do.
Peter had a one hour lunch break, and when he looked down at his phone, he realized he had 8 minutes to get back to work, about 7 blocks away. Plenty of time.
He wadded up his napkin and placed it on his tray alongside the used Miracle Whip packets and his empty coffee cup. Then, he grasped the tray with one hand. He extended one foot and began to rise from his chair when suddenly, the world seemed to swim away
The next time Peter opened his eyes, three weeks of his life had disappeared. He lay in a hospital bed with no memory of how he’d ended up there. A nurse told him, coldly, that he’d had a heart attack.
“You've been unconscious for three weeks," she said. "Your brother has been visiting when he can," she added. Then, Peter drifted off again. The drugs they gave him kept him heavily sedated, and he was mostly incoherent for almost three months. Still, he had flashes of memory.
He recalled his nurse lecturing him one day.
“Mr. Chambers," she said, "If you don’t change your lifestyle, you’ll end up back here.” He listened, not able to respond due to a tube down his throat.
A few days later, he became aware of his brother Tim in the room. He woke to the sound of Tim’s voice.
“Do you wanna see the video, Peter?”
When Peter opened his eyes, Tim was sitting at his bedside holding a tablet. On the screen played a security camera video from the café. From the camera mounted high in the corner of the room, Peter watched as he attempted to get up from his table, then went down hard, banging his head on the table on the way down. Peter realized that the security camera’s point of view felt like an out-of-body experience… as if he were watching himself die.
With great effort, Peter reached out and grabbed his brother’s wrist. Tim looked down at him as Peter croaked, his voice barely a whisper.
“I’m sorry.”
With a quick, subtle motion, Tim pulled his hand away and stood.
"Peter, is this enough?" his younger brother asked from his bedside. "Does almost dying have enough impact to make you change?" He chuffed, sweeping his hand through the air.
“It’s not like I don’t have a life of my own to lead,” he said.
His brother was the only relative nearby, and Peter’s well-being had fallen into his youngest sibling’s hands.
As he recuperated, Peter learned he’d lost his job. He had exhausted his benefits, and the doctors advised against returning to work, as it was high-stress, sedentary, and bad for his health. His boss had hired a young hotshot to replace him. Peter had a small nest egg—just over $12,000—that his mom had left him, and that was all. As the doctors prepared to release him, Peter realized he would be starting over.
A cashier with an accent handed over Peter’s change, which he pocketed before grabbing his small bag and heading out the door. The little store was right on the ground floor of his building and he stopped there often.
It was dusk, just before 6 pm, and the beautiful orange and purple sky backlit the cities’ buildings, creating a skyline silhouette. The towering buildings made him feel small and invisible, but there was no time to consider his existence. He had just a few minutes to get to work and clock-in.
His heart attack was nearly a year in the past, and he’d applied for and received federal disability payments, but it wasn’t enough to pay his medical bills, or even groceries and rent for that matter. So Peter had gone looking for a job.
He found out the new hotshot hadn’t worked out, so he applied for his old job, but that ship had sailed. He couldn’t even get his old boss to return his calls.
All he’d been able to find was a factory job, working their version of third shift. Four days per week, Tuesday through Friday, he worked 10 hours per day, from 6 pm to 4 am.
On the sidewalk outside, the wind tunnel effect amongst the tall buildings downtown made the winter feel colder than it was — freezing for anybody who’d become accustomed to living in the south, and Peter zipped up his jacket as he climbed into his truck.
He worked an entire shift that night, packaging small mechanical parts for a manufacturing company, then clocked-out. Nobody said goodbye to him, and he didn’t say goodbye to anyone, either. He’d given up trying. From the first day at the factory, everyone had seemed wrapped up in their own dramas, and although he’d never been a sullen, keep-to-yourself kind of guy, it was exactly where he’d found himself.
Peter arrived home, parked his truck, and headed for the security door to access his building. It had once been an office building, and later, a decrepit hotel, but had been renovated in recent years by a shady developer who invested the absolute minimum to make it livable, before marketing it as a “luxury apartment building.” Peter’s brother Tim had helped him find it.
He glanced at the sticker just above the keypad, which read “Secure Access.” Peter punched in his security code and snickered to nobody in particular as he slid inside, into the lobby.
Secure access.
The convenience store on the ground floor had an unsecured door which led from the store into the lobby of the building. The smartest among the city’s indigent community had figured it out, and now used the store as a means to gain entry to the building, where they would bathe in the sinks of the lobby bathroom, or lock themselves in for the night during the coldest winter nights.
There was no oversight. Nobody paid attention. Hell, they couldn’t even vacuum the hallways on a regular schedule.
Luxury apartment building. The first five floors are a homeless shelter, but I’m on six, so…
He didn’t think it was good to be so cynical, but it was the truth.
On the 6th floor, Peter walked down a long hallway to get to his apartment at the south end, where his favorite feature awaited — the window, just outside his apartment door. The view was of a courtyard below, and on the other side, a huge former office building of gothic design. The building’s windows were mostly dark when he would arrive home in the early morning hours, but occasionally there would be 4 or 5 windows illuminated. Like his own building, the place across the courtyard, Hudson Square, had been renovated in low-rent fashion, then the offices were leased to small-dollar tenants who would not have had the resources to rent an office under other circumstances. He’d never been inside, but he loved to look at it and imagine what must be going on in those lit windows at 4:15 am. If he saw someone, he would wave, just to see if they would respond, but nobody ever waved back.
On that particular night, Hudson Square was dark.
Peter entered his apartment, set down his things, and immediately began changing clothes. He donned a pair of workout pants and a t-shirt, then a black hoodie with a radio station logo on the front.
Minutes later, he was back on the sidewalk in front of his building, headed out for his walk. He’d dedicated himself to changing his life, his workout routine, and his diet, and he felt after work was the best time to get in a 3 mile walk, despite it being cold and dark. He’d put in his earbuds and head out, careful to watch his step on the city’s crumbling sidewalks.
There was something peaceful about it.
Before he’d started working third shift, when he was able to walk in the daylight, he would tell anyone who would listen that there was a lot to be said about the sun on your face, music in your ears, and nobody’s voice in your head but your own. Unfortunately, he hadn’t done it enough and his health had suffered. Now, walking at night, he thought two out of three wasn’t bad.
Like most nights, he finished his walk, watched a little TV, and by 6:30 am, his designated bedtime, he was nodding off on the sofa, his “day” at an end.
He got up and stumbled into bed.
His day began about 1:30 in the afternoon most days. He’d get up, shower, have “breakfast,” and take care of household things, like dishes and laundry and groceries. Usually, Peter would make a sandwich to bring to work as his lunch, and just before 6 pm, he’d be out the door, on his way to work again.
He made it a routine, and it was comfortable to him, but if he was honest, it was also very lonely. His schedule made it difficult to have a social life, and even on the weekends, he’d maintain his weird schedule, lest he be on a fucked up sleep schedule the following week.
He knew people who thrived on the third shift and loved living alone, but for some reason, he couldn’t get comfortable with the loneliness. There was never anybody to talk to.
Nobody to tell him he’d done a good job.
Nobody to tell him he was looking good when he lost 30 pounds.
Nobody to give him a hug and say I love you.
One night, as Peter exited into the parking lot at work after another long day at the factory, dense fog greeted him. It was thick, like a 1930s mystery noir, and he had to be careful not to overdrive his headlights on the trip home.
Not one to let a little fog ruin his nightly walk, Peter changed into his workout clothes, popped in his earbuds, and headed for the sidewalk six stories down. In the elevator, he was about to choose his regular rock playlist when an idea occurred to him.
He looked up Miles Davis’ “Ascenseur pour l’échafaud” and pressed “play.” It was a musical score Davis had composed for a French film noir in 1958, and had long been one of Peter’s favorites.
Davis’ sultry, muted trumpet burst forth from Peter’s earbuds, and as he exited the elevator and walked into the foggy night, he knew immediately that he’d found something.
The music was perfect, and it elevated the experience of his nightly walk.
The streetlights shone with yellow halos, and when a rare car passed at that early hour, its headlights cast long, ethereal beams in the night.
He imagined himself as a gumshoe in a long trench coat, searching for a dame with one piece of information that could crack his case. His walk raced by, and when his three miles were done, he’d wished they weren’t.
He exited the elevator into the long hallway on the 6th floor, and as he approached the window at the end, even through the fog, he could see several offices lit in Hudson Square’s windows
As he often did, Peter paused outside his apartment to examine Hudson Square, watching for any sign of life. The fog obscured his view, but he could swear he saw someone moving back and forth in one of the lit offices.
For just a moment, the breeze picked up, and the fog momentarily cleared in front of the windows. A woman could be seen, standing at a desk, looking down at something on the desktop, apparently reading by the light of a dim desk lamp.
She wore an alluring yellow dress and swayed a little as she read.
Peter stood holding his keys and looked closer, stunned by her beauty, finding her incredibly captivating.
He heard a noise behind him, and Peter spun around, startled.
Five steps away, a vagrant approached him.
“Hey sir, sorry, could you spare 5 dollars?” the man asked. He carried his belongings with both hands, contained within drawstring bags.
“You know you aren’t supposed to be up here!” Peter barked. The man immediately retreated.
“Sorry,” the vagrant said. “Thank you anyway. I didn’t mean to…”
Peter spun around once more, but the woman was gone. His eyes scanned the windows of Hudson Square. He found himself unable to even determine which window he had seen her in. It seemed as though, in those few seconds, she had left her office and turned off the light.
The vagrant waited for the elevator at the end of the hall, and Peter waited for him to enter before he unlocked his apartment door.
It was a beautiful, sunny day when Peter awoke the following afternoon. He stepped into the hallway and peered out the window. Hudson Square didn’t look as romantic in the daylight. He examined the building’s facade, trying to determine in which window the woman had appeared, but to no avail. He thought she had been on a higher floor—maybe the 7th or 8th—but he couldn’t be certain. He had no choice but to put it out of his mind and go about his day. He still had to make a living.
The unfortunate thing about trying to put something out of your mind is that it rarely works, or so Peter thought. All night at the factory, he couldn’t stop thinking about the woman; he was obsessed.
Who was she?
Why hadn’t he seen her before?
What was she doing working at 4 a.m.?
When he arrived home from work that night, he couldn’t wait to get to the window at the end of the hallway, to see if the woman in the yellow dress would be there. He was disappointed to see every window in Hudson Square dark.
Peter changed into his workout clothes and went for his walk.
When he returned to his door on the 6th floor, a light illuminated a single window across the courtyard. He stood watching for a moment, and then she appeared.
The woman in the yellow dress.
She passed in front of the window, out of sight, then came back again.
As before, she stopped and peered down at the desk in front of her, swaying in her captivating manner.
Peter raised his hand and waved, first subtly, then in a more exaggerated manner. There was an entire city block between them, and he didn’t think he could easily get her attention from so far away.
The woman did not react.
How long would he stand there, trying to get her attention? Nobody had ever waved back before.
He counted the windows from the ground up, pointing his finger as he counted.
…five, six, seven… Seven stories.
He counted the windows from the west end of the building.
One, two, three, four… Four windows from the end.
She was one floor higher than he was, and four windows from the end of the hall.
He waved again, but still she did not respond.
“Hey!” the cashier said when Peter stopped into the convenience store on the ground floor one early morning as he arrived home from work.
“Mike?” Peter asked. “I haven’t seen you in forever,” he continued. “I thought you had quit or something.”
“No, my wife was having our baby so I’ve been out for a few weeks,” Mike said. He was a middle-eastern man and Peter had struck up a friendship with him over time. Mike had once given Peter a free hot cocoa for being a regular customer.
“What have you been up to?” Mike asked. “How is your heart?”
“I’m good, man,” Peter answered. “Getting my exercise and eating right,” he said as he laid a king size candy bar on the counter.
“And?” Mike said, smiling big. “Have you met anybody yet?”
He knew that Peter had been interested in meeting a girl, but not having any luck.
Peter smiled and answered.
“Not unless you count the woman in the window,” he said.
“What woman in what window?” Mike asked, though with his accent, it came out “Vut voman in vut window?” It made Peter giggle a little.
He told Mike the story about the woman in yellow, and how she had captured his imagination.
“I was thinking if I see her again,” Peter said, “I could go over there and try to find her office. Maybe ask her to get coffee or something.”
Mike’s eyes widened.
“You vant to get the police called on you or something?” Mike asked.
Peter considered Mike’s statement.
“Yeah, you’re probably right,” he concluded.
Peter had tried to meet women in various ways, but he was out of practice. Dating apps didn’t work, nor did social media. He felt dating had become a process where women assumed the worst about a man from the start, and he had to convince them he was worthwhile just to get a first date. It was a sad reality.
Minutes later, Peter was at his door again, and six windows were illuminated in Hudson Square, including the fourth window from the end on the seventh floor. However, nobody could be seen in any of them.
Peter put on his workout clothes, fired up his earbuds, and went for his walk. By the time he returned, it was almost 5 o’clock in the morning.
He arrived at the window at the end of the long hallway, and only 4 windows were still lit, but the 4th window from the end on the 7th floor was still one of them.
Peter stood patiently, watching. It might have only been a minute or two, but to him, it felt like an eternity.
The woman appeared at the window, again wearing her yellow dress. This time, she wasn’t looking down at her desk. Just like Peter, she was looking out her window, examining the surrounding city.
Then, she appeared to look in his direction.
Peter stood directly beneath the light illuminating his end of the hallway, knowing he must be plainly visible.
He quickly raised his arm and waved his hand back and forth.
Is she seeing me?
And then it happened.
She waved back.
Peter’s heart leapt in his chest.
After so many months of living in the building, alone, and all the times he had attempted to offer a silent greeting to the people in the building across the way, someone had waved back.
Peter waved again, more enthusiastically, and he could have sworn he saw her smile.
She returned his wave—a playful, ‘girl-next-door’ wave, where she held her hand palm out and bent her fingers at the knuckles repeatedly, like a wink, but with her hand. And then she was gone.
Peter stood there a few more minutes, waiting to see if she would return. But she didn’t. Nevertheless, he was overwhelmed with joy.
“Small pleasures, Peter,” he reminded himself.
Over the next week, Peter did not see the woman again, yet he floated on air. He went through his daily routine barely thinking about work, drifting through each day, unable to think of anything but the woman. He had convinced himself that she was the woman of his dreams, and when he had the opportunity to meet her in person, they would fall madly in love and have the best origin story of any couple ever.
Yes, I met your grandmother when she waved at me from the seventh floor of a building on the next block over.
It was on one of those nights at work, as he dreamed of the woman in the yellow dress, his boss showed up at his workstation.
“Pete,” his boss said. “Can I speak with you?”
“It’s Peter,” he responded. “What’s up?”
His boss gave him the ‘follow me’ hand gesture and Peter obliged, following his boss to the office.
“Listen, Pete,” his boss said, then corrected himself. “I mean, Peter. I don’t know what’s going on with you lately,” his boss began, but Peter interrupted.
“I’m sorry, Clint,” Peter said. “I’ve been distracted. I’ll do better.”
“No,” Clint said, “I don’t think you understand. Your productivity has increased significantly.”
Peter blinked, trying to process what he was hearing.
“Harvey is retiring at the end of the month, and I need someone I can rely on to fill his spot,” Clint said.
“Harvey is the assistant VP of production,” Peter said.
“That’s right,” Clint said, offering a tempered smile. “You will be on day shift, and you'll get your own office.”
“I—I don’t know what to say,” Peter said.
“It’s a $14,000 bump, Peter,” Clint said. “Say you’ll do it.”
“I’ll do it,” Peter replied.
“Great,” Clint responded. “On Monday, let’s sit down and discuss it further.”
He stuck out his hand and Peter shook it.
“Thank you,” Peter replied.
“No,” Clint said, “Thank you. I’m looking forward to it.”
Bursting with good news but with nobody to tell, Peter could barely contain himself. He would finally be able to pay his medical bills. More importantly, he would be able to have a regular schedule for the first time in more than a year. He’d be able to have a social life.
I could take the woman in the window on a date.
And he knew right then what he would do.
The next 'morning,' Peter woke up at 1:30 in the afternoon. He put on Miles Davis, brewed some coffee, showered, and got dressed in a nice pair of jeans, brown shoes, a collared plaid shirt with a sweater over it, and a blazer.
He drank his coffee, grabbed his keys, and left. On the ground floor, he exited from the rear entrance onto the sidewalk and crossed the courtyard to Hudson Square. It was normal business hours and he knew there would be workers in the building.
He was on a mission to meet the woman in the yellow dress.
Peter followed a worker into the building and went straight to the elevators—a grand Art Deco lift that seemed twice as wide as a typical modern elevator.
Inside, he pressed the button for the 7th floor.
When the elevator doors opened, he knew exactly where to go. He had imagined this moment so many times that he had gotten the layout firmly planted in his mind.
He went left, all the way to the end of the hall, and then left again. The woman in yellow’s office should be near the end of the hall on the right.
As he approached the door he believed might be the woman’s office, he realized the hallway was unusually dark. The lights were off.
Maybe they’re conserving energy.
Peter guessed her office was likely the second door from the end of the hallway, since each office probably had two windows, and hers had been the fourth.
He reached the second door and tried the knob, but it didn’t budge.
Locked.
Peter considered it.
Maybe she only works third shift. I’ve only seen her in the early morning hours.
He examined the office, but there was no name on the door.
“Can I help you?” a voice called out from down the hall..
Peter immediately recognized the man approaching as a custodian.
“Oh, uh, hi,” Peter replied. “I’m trying to get in touch with the woman in this office,” he continued. “I know this sounds crazy, but I live across the way and…”
“There’s nobody in this office,” the custodian said, furrowing his brow and eyeing Peter like he was crazy.
“Oh,” Peter said, confused. “Are you sure, because…”
“Listen, Pal, there’s nobody in this office,” the custodian said. “This entire floor has been vacant for nearly 50 years.”
The custodian grabbed the keys attached to his belt on a retractable spool and pulled them out, unlocking the office door. Gently, he pushed the door and it swung open.
Peter stepped into the darkened office and surveyed his surroundings.
Wood paneling lined the walls, and olive green laminate covered the countertops. A rotary-dial phone rested nearby. The office looked like it came straight out of the 1970s.
Peter approached a desk near the window. He ran his finger across the top of it and left a single track in the undisturbed dust which had clearly been accumulating for decades.
“Maybe I’m confused,” Peter said, his voice trailing off. “What about the office below us?”
“That’s my storeroom,” the custodian said. “There’s nobody in there, either.”
“And on 8?” Peter asked, pointing up with one finger.
“Floors 7 through 12 are vacant,” the custodian said.
Peter paused.
“Are we done here?" the custodian asked, his impatience growing.
“Yes,” Peter replied, still confused. “I guess we are.”
There seemed to be no explanation for what Peter had experienced. He was puzzled and discouraged, and the depression that plagued him before his heart attack had crept back in. The Miles Davis film noir soundtrack that had once thrilled him now took on a melancholic tone.
He switched to the day shift at the factory and settled into his new office. When he returned to the cafe one day for lunch, for old times sake, Kayla was there waiting for him.
“Peter!” she practically shouted, rushing from behind the counter to give him a hug. “How are you?” she asked in an enthusiastic way that came out like “How arrreee yoouuuu?”
He forced a half-smile.
“I’m getting by, darlin’,” he said. “It’s nice to see you,” he said into her ear as he returned her hug.
“Just getting by?” she asked, her voice filled with genuine concern.
“Well, you know…” he muttered, sitting down at his table
“I’ll be right back,” she said.
Peter watched as she went behind the counter and made his coffee, then briefly spoke to her supervisor. She returned to his table, set his coffee down, and took the seat opposite him.
They made small talk.
He told Kayla about his new position at work and she congratulated him, but eventually she addressed the elephant in the room.
“I’ve been worried about you,” she said. “The last time I saw you…”
She pointed to the floor beside the table.
“Yeah, I know,” he said. “It’s been a long road back.”
He looked Kayla in the eye.
“I’ve been in a really dark place.”
Her brow furrowed with concern, and she gently took his hand. Peter looked down at their interlocked fingers.
“I’ve been there, Peter,” she said. “You know what helps me?”
He looked up again.
“Gratitude,” she said. “Positivity,” she continued. “I try to find something to be grateful for every day, and when I do, I write it down.”
Peter didn’t know what to say. He’d been raised to be cynical and negative.
“There’s a local poet I like to read,” she said. “Can I send you a link?”
He nodded and Kayla tapped out a message on her phone as Peter finished his coffee. They had another warm hug as they parted, and Peter returned to his office at the factory. He finished his day, but Kayla’s words stayed with him.
When he arrived home that evening, he stepped off the elevator on the 6th floor and walked down the long hallway to the window outside his apartment. He stood there and gazed out at Hudson Square for several long minutes.
He needed some positivity, some gratitude in his life.
Peter pulled out his phone and tapped the link Kayla had sent him. A page opened, and he started reading.
The night may weep, the winds may wail,
The road may twist, the steps may fail.
But even in the coldest gloom,
The smallest seed prepares to bloom.
The dawn will rise, the dark will fade,
New dreams will form from those that frayed.
Through highs and lows, through loss and song,
The world still turns—life marches on.
Emily Farantino
The words affected Peter in a profound way. He was touched, both by Kayla’s gesture, and the sentiment in the poem. He wanted more.
He opened another window on his phone as he stood there overlooking the courtyard, basking in the golden hour light emanating from the physical window before him.
He typed “Emily Farantino,” and a page of search results appeared. He tapped on the first one. It was a newspaper article from 1971.
The headline read, “Local Poet Dies.”
He began to read.
“Emily Farantino, legendary local poet, has died. The respected writer, poet, and philanthropist passed away early this morning at her office in Hudson Square, where she had been working on her latest poetry collection. Her family says she died at her desk of an apparent heart attack.”
And right there, about a third of the way down, there was a photo.
A photo of Emily Farantino.
The photo was in black and white, but there was no mistaking her.
It was her—the woman in the yellow dress.
Peter stood stunned. His eyes returned to the final lines of her poem.
Through highs and lows, through loss and song,
The world still turns—life marches on.
He looked out beyond the courtyard, gazing at Hudson Square for another long minute as he contemplated all that had happened.
"You were right, Ms. Farantino," Peter whispered. "The world still turns. Life marches on."
Troy Larson is a writer, digital content creator, and broadcast veteran with hundreds of podcast and broadcast credits to his name. Reach out on Facebook and on Instagram.
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