It's 5 AM on a Saturday, yet there he is on his balcony every morning without fail.
I don't think he notices me sitting on my porch chair, a magazine on my lap, and a glass of wine in my hand. I don't think he notices anything at all. In fact, he doesn't take his eyes off the street ten stories below him.
Can he hear the early birds singing, or the rhythmic dripping of last night's rain from the drain pipe?
Can he hear my cold fingers turning the crisp pages of my gossip magazine?
This is what it was like last week, too. Me, sitting on my chair with a glass of red wine, and him, leaning on the rail with only the world's troubles on his shoulders.
I wonder what kind of problems a pretty boy like him could have.
I could only imagine.
I empathize for poor little Balcony Boy, who feels as lonely as he looks.
YOU ARE READING
He Smells Like Love.
القصة القصيرةI always saw him leaning on his balcony railing, peering down at the bustling street, lost in thought. Every morning. So I thought, why not ask him what was on his mind? I didn't think that there could be so many thoughts racing through one's head. ...
