The air out tonight is chilly, but I still lean out in my peach camisole, taking intermittant drags from my slow burning cigarette as I listen to his new piece. It sounds almost familiar, like I’ve heard it before.

I smile warmly to myself, enchanted in the fact that I’m leaning out a window and nobody would ever guess that I’m not wearing any pants.

Izzy came by today. She lives in the same flat as my window neighbour. I had given her a ring after my bath with all of my burning curiosities. She confirmed to me that his name is Pierre, and is indeed French. She had no other steaming details that could have fueled any late night fantasies of mine, other than he never comes out of his apartment, but is rumoured to be curiously awkward and moody.

All I really needed was a name anyway. A name can spawn quite numerous lazy bathtime daydreams, all of which I hope to fulfill sometime or other. Izzy always chastises me saying, “Marguerite, you are such a dreamer! Wake up!”

But I can’t wake up.