At first I thought it was a shirt hung up to dry in front of the screen–or something like a cabinet or lamp silhouetted in the center 5th floor window. But for the second time in a week I confirmed with a craning double-take that someone was indeed staring at me out of their apartment. Face obscured in the night air, I could only guess the gender of the human bust, but because I’m more frightened of men, I assign this anonymous and unflinching onlooker a male identity. He looks more like a solid black target at a shooting range than a person. Does he think I cannot see him in the same position every time? Does he wonder why I talk to myself as I walk in the damp darkness from my car to the door? Does my silly nonsense self-conversation carry up that high in the windless chill? Well, I was talking about toilet paper and keys if he didn’t hear it right the first time.



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