Photo credit: Curtis Gregory Perry via Visual hunt / CC BY-NC-SA

The city thrusts us together. Your building across from mine, allowing me entry to your life. I know when you leave and when you will return. I know how your day went by the way you toss your keys on the table. The way you arch your back, looking up, hands in your hair to hush the scream.

Tonight, upstairs is preparing for another party. The music will be loud and even I will feel the pulsating subwoofers. Downstairs have left for the weekend, while next door the old lady smokes and orders Chinese. I know your neighbors as well as you know mine and I know mine not at all.

You come to your window, your gaze rakes my building, my window. Stepping back, I grab the remote to flip on the TV. It would not do, if our eyes were to meet. Each thinking the worst of the other. Once, the children downstairs waved, but they too have learned. I flop on the couch turning my head, to see you turn and move toward your kitchen.

Soon, lights will go out, as will mine. I may never know your name, but I will still call you my friend.

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Keep on writing.

Jo Hawk The Writer