The man

There’s a strange man outside my window, he keeps tapping against the glass with his pinky ring and he’s smiling, but his eyes are sad, they remind me of the eyes of a weeping dog, there is so much sadness in those lonely dark eyes. His face brings rain and his laugh makes babies cry, why is he out there now? What does he want from me? His shoes look expensive, but his suit is cheap and wrinkled and it is a canvas for meals of time-passed.

I’m listening to Wagner, but it sounds like Chopin. His eyes are beady and wet, is he crying or is it the wind? The never-ending wind, that takes away the hats of the old men limping in the street, the wind that upturns the umbrellas and runs up the virginal thighs of schoolgirls, blowing their short skirts up, for the pleasure of the hatless old pervs. The wind that makes the lovers laugh and the loners cry.

The wind is moaning and crying my name, blowing snow flakes against the windows of bars, censoring the happiness of couples I will never meet.

Why is the man still looking at me? How can he be looking in? I live on the third floor, why is he on my balcony? Why now? Why here?

I then see him pouring himself a drink and light a cigarette. Just like me. I think I can understand his tear-filled eyes now.