He looked confused. He kept his eyes off the window, I’m pretty sure the naked comment freaked him out.

“I just wanted to know,” he said, sounding sad.

“Call me whatever you want,” I said, waving my hand in the air, shooing away an invisible fly.

“You,” he said, “Are the angel in my window.”

“That’s embarrassing,” I said, trying to suppress laughter. I could tell he looked hurt at my comment.

“Oh fine, fine,” I grumbled. “My name is Marguerite.”

“Marguerite,” he sighed, putting a hand to his heart, “So beautiful.” Oh god, he’s the mushy type. I’m screwed.

“Um, yeah…okay,” I said curiously.

“Marguerite!” he cried, “I wrote you a song. I shall play it for you while you bathe.” He dissapeared into his flat. I should have kept the window closed.

“What happened to talking?” I shouted. This man has terrible conversation skills. I reached over to the stereo sitting on a stool by the tub and pushed play.

Ah, David Bowie, I thought as I sunk into the sparkling bubbles.