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Another older piece, about a neighbor in my building. I'm not one to notice much, but she put herself on display constantly, for what i believe a man she admired that lives on the first floor. I dont know if he necessarily had an intimate affair with her, but it seems they had some sort of involvement, and he was also involved with another older woman one floor above her. I barely see her anymore, and its hard to tell if she moved out or not, I just hope she is doing what is best for her.


Submitted:Dec 26, 2009    Reads: 143    Comments: 0    Likes: 0   


She was stunning, a young artiste from the Midwest, and just like all the other day-trippers immigrating into New York, looking for an innovative start, and eventually, prominence. She sat on the second step of the grey cement stoop in front of the slick glass door encompassed in the black concrete frame letting the August zephyr bluster past her fair hair into the scarlet brick building she called home. She sat in her ashen gown the first time I saw her, knees clasped to chest, hair disheveled, and eyes seeping with tears from a lover that lasts no longer than the instance it takes to rupture a heart, a life and a soul. I gazed at her across the court, through the pine tree in the oval garden sheathed in the crimson brick that our edifice was created out of. The same petite plot that was enclosed by an ebony iron gate had often been the domain of a good deal of mischief, play time and gardening as a youth, before people moved, and I started to not distinguish the portraits of my neighbors. I went upstairs, only stopping for a few moments to acknowledge another new face, childlike and plain yet so stunning. She gradually made her way up the black and white tiled staircase on the other side, back to her new apartment, vacant, and is open for a viewing from any voyeur or nosy passer by. She had no shades or curtains on her window nor did she bother to keep her two cats indistinguishable to the ebony and ivory tiles, from drifting on to the fire escape right outside her windowpane. They brushed back and forth between floors, using the black iron stairs of the escape, as their private playground. She sits by the window gazing down at the courtyard, watching people pass through the black iron gate, everyday, waiting for someone, anyone, to love her. She still sits there, in awe, of the person she was, and the person she is, now.





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