It’s summer. Which means, the humidity is here, the windows are open and the shades are pulled back. The usual overwhelming quest for privacy is finally done in by the need for a cool breeze and for the first time since my arrival, I get to catch a glimpse of my neighbors backlit and unconcerned.
The combined effect is my spending an hour watching a couple on the eighteenth floor of a building across the street dancing in their living room in perfect aesthetic sillouhette for any who take the odd moment to look up from their lives below. I imagine them an aged couple, content with their roles and unashamed to provide an example for the rest.
In the building beside us a young boy likes to wave across the way and a man sometimes forgets to close the bathroom window before showering. He never fails to remember a few minutes in and drops to the floor in fear and embarassment. A woman below cooks curry nearly every night and the smell wafts up and fills our apartment with the spicy scent.
But, at midnight, most of the lit windows provide only lifeless and empty snapshots: a lamp here, an empty kitchen there.
I can’t help but wonder if my window must not furnish the more interesting portrait. A desk, with the computer always on. Books littering the room. A bed cutting sharply through the upper casement, half drawn sheer, and a wide-eyed girl…staring out the window, looking, looking for something.