The life I meet
To get to my kitchen, I invariably walk past the back door, which offers a view to the neighbors. I look around, spying. There are new students, on the second floor, a gay couple no doubt, there are the neighbors on the ground floor with their son who lost his fat and now is rolling his biceps. In the summer, he is usually in his underwear and displays his new weapons. There is the other neighbor I rarely see, an old girl, I think, whose yard remains painfully deserted (whereas in the family of the Tarzan boy, it is usually a permanent bric-a-brac). Sometimes this lady sits on a chaise longue, in the middle of her asphalt, a book in her hands. But it doesn’t last long, as if the freedom to do nothing wasn’t for her. There are also these others with their massive dogs that frighten anyone who ventures into the alley. Finally, there is this lady, dragging her widow out of boredom and sweeping her yard, season after season, summer and winter, and sheltering in her basement students who arrive early in the morning, with their pillows under their arms, whom a mother comes to take home because she probably has to go to work.
I haven’t mentioned the young couple who left last year. A handsome little punk with a pretty toddler in his arms. And I didn’t mention my lateral neighbors, all more diverse than bicolored. I don’t know anyone, sometimes nods at them to say hello, but then the knowledge of the other ends.
I don’t want to know them either, and they probably don’t care if I’m still at home.
Oh, that’s right, I forgot to mention this other neighbor who fucks, if I count well, fucks more than one girl (there are three of them in the apartment, but it seems to fluctuate). I often see them naked, getting excited. At least they have the decency to turn off the light when it comes time to mate. I mean, I’m not interested in their frolics, I would have been better off on the Internet.
This is the life I meet when I go to my kitchen. What I’m inferring from that is probably all wrong, but is it vital? My fertile imagination needs this breeding ground of possibilities.
