The room overlooks the street.

Because the room overlooks the street, the borders of the street and the borders of the room are hard to distinguish. Because it is hard to distinguish these borders, it is difficult to know where the room ends and the street begins.

Often, the room and the street are confused: which one is the room? Which one is the street?

They share so much in common.

The presence of a sound in the room, for instance, prompts a question about the origin of such sound, and if the cause of the sound is the room or the street. Especially late at night, noise from the street, or maybe from the room, is indistinguishable from noise from the room, or maybe from the street. The room may sigh, but to the street, that sign of relief, pleasure, melancholy or frustration, will sound like the groan of its own sidewalk, rain gutters, or traffic lights. The street may stretch its legs and arms to relieve tiredness and stress, but to the room, this movement manifests as the light shaking of its walls and a definitive sense that nothing is within its control.

They are linked together, the room and the street.

The room can see what the street is doing, unless it is too dark or too rainy, it is all visible from the vantage point of the room. The people that come and go, their bags, carts, strollers, dogs, cars. The buses that pass, first going north, then going south. The fire trucks, the trucks that supply the restaurant on the street, the garbage truck every night: it’s all visible to the room.

For most of the day, the street can’t see as much of the room. After the sun sets, an hour or two later, when it gets dark and the room’s lights turn on, the street starts to make out the objects in the room, and through them, can see the room again. Books piled on the windowsills, two or three green plants, outlines of furniture—that’s what the street sees, and thinks, well, the room likes to be among things.

Sometimes those things even come down to the street inside black, plastic bags. When that happens, the bottles and boxes once inside the room, rest on the street, making the separation between room and street seem even more arbitrary. Is the sidewalk an extension of the room or of the street?

One day, the room goes out.

It reaches another street, arriving there by train. This street is old, the buildings flanking it on either side still have the appearance of warehouses, having been constructed for that purpose decades ago. The room enters one of the warehouse buildings, walks down a confusing, dark hallway to reach another room. With some hesitation, it enters the other room. A dozen eyes look at the room, then look away. In this room, they are gathered to celebrate publication of a progressive literary magazine. The room—that other room—eagerly waits to hear what they have to say, waits to hear a poem or a short story that would inspire a new outlook on life, clarify some lingering questions, or at the very least, surprise and entertain.

One after the other, the people in the room—that other room—read manifestos. Surprisingly, the manifestos reference many different streets, but they all seem to blur into one: the street as the site of struggle. It’s just a metaphor, their street, the room thinks, unlike my street, so resolutely itself, these streets are flat and lifeless. Even with the passionate descriptions of the people in the streets, there is little that distinguishes one street from the other, the room concludes, and disappointed, it returns home, to its street.

Settling into the night, it wonders how accurate it is to call its street its own.

A few weeks later, it’s the street’s turn to be preoccupied.

In the early morning hours, it is overtaken by a procession of protesters holding signs, flags and megaphones, chanting something in unison. Their movements are slow, and every so often they stop to make speeches, addressing the crowd and invoking the invisible entities responsible for their descent to the street. With little knowledge of the group’s demands, the street can’t understand them fully, but their voices convey a sense of urgency that the street relishes. Secretly, selfishly, the street wishes the group stays there forever.

Above the commotion, the room sits and thinks Aha! Now I will understand the manifestos.

The room descends to the street. The room follows the procession of people down the street.

When they turn, the room quickly forgets its project of understanding.

Looking into the distance, it wonders: is this any longer my street?

Despite the excitement of the last few weeks, both room and street know that their days will soon return to their routine. So, they don’t despair. They wait.

From its windows, the room watches the street. Mundanity—the slow, languid walk of people with nowhere to go, except for a need to abandon the rooms that contain them—returns one Sunday afternoon. The movement is consistent and predictable. 

The room watches the street. From morning until evening, the room watches. It could go on watching forever, if not for the frigid winter days when the street empties, and not much remains to be seen. With few venturing out, making their outings brief, so they can run back to their rooms, the street is now abandoned. The room feels sorrow for the street; it also knows loneliness well. This is the room’s flaw. It tries to imagine the street’s feelings without so much as asking it how it feels. Yes, yes, the room assumes.

At night, tired of looking, the room listens. At 12:59 am, the garbage trucks arrive. There’s noise, chatter, then the engulfing silence when they leave. The room wishes to get up, descend the stairs, go down to the street, and then—and then?

It has been a long day.

The street has gone to sleep. A bird chirping here and there does not disturb it. Time passes, as always. A massive parade, the street dreams, but silent. A massive, soundless parade in the street. Parade floats, beautiful costumes, instruments and songs, all silent. In the dream, the street thinks: what pleasure, what joy, how great.

In the morning, the street reflects on the dream.

In the morning, the street reflects on the dream but the dream eludes it, and when an image resurfaces, the street’s thinking gets disturbed by noise. It’s a loud, rumbling sound. The street does not know what the sound is or what causes it—just that it grows from a somewhere it cannot begin to imagine. The room stirs. The noise that wakes it demands attention, but the room doesn’t peek at its windows. This time, it prefers not to know. As the volume of the noise grows, room and street meld into it.

Now their separation starts to seem insignificant.

Space is senseless, the room says. We give it sense, the street replies.

But when the sound-filled quiet of the day is restored, street and room start to feel uneasy. Having almost veered into the sentimental, their interaction makes them embarrassed.

The street stays quiet. The room doesn’t make a sound. It’s the only way to avoid the matter of the provenance of sounds, and so, at least for some time, not worry about clarifying the division between street and room. Elsewhere in the world, they might do it differently.

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Genta Nishku is a writer, translator and literary scholar. Her research focuses on silence, testimony, and resistance in contemporary Albanian and post-Yugoslav literatures. Her short fiction has recently been published in the Kenyon Review and new_sinews, and her poetry is forthcoming in Bennington Review and Washington Square Review. She was born and raised in Tirana, and currently lives in New York City. Twitter: @gentanishku