Window into others’ lives

The alley stays dark until midday when the sun finally reaches a narrow opening between buildings. I wake up at eight, thinking it might be as well three in the morning or even noon. Who knows? The sounds from other windows say otherwise. Washing machine finishing its spinning cycle, classical music from the flat on the second level, a child demanding attention through a loud cry, they all say otherwise: it’s eight, it’s for sure eight in the morning.

I’m the first to wake up in our kitchen, making it smell like coffee and a toast with marmalade. Barefoot, on my tiptoes, I have my breakfast in the bed, thinking about others’ lives only to forget mine.