The Office in the Window

Imagine: you draw a knife through an anthill and with the same knife gently push the two slices apart.  Now every tunnel and half opened 'room' looks across a gulf of space into other passages, into other 'rooms'.  Or if ants aren't your thing, imagine apartment blocks cut through by a street, the apartments lined and as mathematically poised behind shields of balconies as members of opposing armies.

And scouring this cross section with its jumble of plants and lounge chairs your eye falls quickly upon something that doesn't seem to fit.  A square of life that shuns domesticity, a balcony of plantless neutrality: in short, an office.  Behind a sensible black desk a slightly overweight, slightly greying, slightly well dressed man stares intently at a screen that loosely frames some excel spreadsheet or other.  He scrolls up.  Stop.  He scrolls down.  Stop.  And now he makes a little note on a pad or sheet of printer paper.  He checks his watch.  Stretches.  He seems pleased with that because now he's out on the sterile balcony for a fag.

That's when she appears.  Sliding her balcony door open with a yawn, she pads out into the late afternoon sun, a dog under one arm, phone pressed in half shrug against her ear.  About his age by the looks of her, about forty five or so.  By complete coincidence she mirrors his pose exactly: close to the rails, one hand on hip.  But she's a floor above.  That's the tragedy.  The smoke from his cigarette wafts up and past her.  She doesn't seem to notice it.  And then he's back in front of the computer, he makes a little note on a pad or sheet of printer paper etc. etc...