From the white tent: an imaginary story

     There is a man who lives in the flat across from me.  He's the only other American in the building that I know of. So I feel a sort of connection with him.  It's like we're brothers or something.

     Every morning when I leave for work, I open my door and there's his door across from me--a green enigma.  Closed.  I assume he's sleeping soundly, unaware of my coming and going.  But when I come back to the flat at night, as I climb the stairs, music drifts through the air to greet me.  Sometimes it's Simon & Garfunkel, sometimes Chopin, other times the Kinks, Mel Torme, or the Shins.  But most often it's the Rolling Stones.  As I walk down the hall to my door, I prepare myself for my one chance to spot him.  His door is always open in the evenings.  It's a beautiful thing.  A soft yellow glow spills out into the hallway.  His flat doesn't smell like a college dorm--no tang of stale clothes or burnt food.  It's just a warm essence that spills out the open door.  As I reach my door, I steal a glance to the left and into his abode.

     On the wall opposite the door there's a large mirror, so I have a pretty good view of the whole room.  It's filled with lamps.  He must never use the awful ceiling lights, I guess.  Artwork and posters are scattered on the walls.  There's an old couch with a questionable pattern--but not ugly.  It fits.  The coffee table in the middle of the room is overflowing with papers and books--I want so badly to know what books he reads.  On an small side table, rests a record player and the source of music.  And next to that, in a comfy looking maroon arm chair, sits the man.  He's reading a book--always is.  Tonight he's wearing a grey t-shirt and hunter green pants.  Barefoot.  He has shaggy brown hair.  It's not dirty or gross, but clean and inviting.  A bit of a beard frames his face.  Brown, square glasses.  From what I can tell, he's not overly attractive, but not ugly.  Just a man.

     When I arrive at my door and start digging around in my purse for my keys, he looks up at me, smiles, and nods.  I always wave distractedly as I find my keys in my coat pocket and say goodnight as I walk into my own, empty flat.