My accidental hobby is meeting eyes with the guests in the window of the six-hundred-dollar
hotel room across from my apartment, just a narrow urban canyon away. It started
with the suited man who, with his phone, was fiddling with the cream-coloured curtains,
his blue eyes dark, watery holes. He saw me pause while making Greek salad,
and we both blushed, looked away. I closed the blinds, but later, I peeked to see him asleep
with the light on. When I am doing yoga, in downward dog position, I wonder if my ass
up in the air can be seen next door. I think about putting on a dance show, with red and yellow
lights and a sequined dress. I no longer change shirts in the living room but on
slow evenings I skim through the microscopic slides of others’ lives.
There are birthday parties with champagne glasses that fall off the windowsill and into the canyon,
shattering into sharp confetti. My roommate once stole through the window a politician’s Kermit Chia
Pet and I made her put it back. We are wondering if we should report the murder we saw last
week while playing Go Fish; we heard a scream and we saw a red handprint left on the glass.
There once was a redhead with a slinky blue gown who blinked at me and returned to her
cigarette, blowing smoky rings, as if I were a brief glare on her windshield. Often the occupants
are staring, and our eyes lock like neighbour Betta fish, unsure if this is a mirror or an enemy.
from subTerrain #72