DAY THREE

There’s a twenty-something boy who lives in the shoebox next door. This evening while in my bathroom, I heard him talking on the telephone, to what I can only assume to be his girlfriend. I pressed my hear ear against the wall. They were making plans for tomorrow night. He wanted to go somewhere to buy some CD and then he suggested they get a bottle of wine and make Sloppy Joe sandwiches at his place. I think she needed some convincing. I mean, I think she needed a hand climbing on the Sloppy Joe wagon, because he was making a huge case in favor of sloppy joes. Before he hung up, he told her that he loved her.

Isn’t it strange that you can share (or in my case, steal) an intimate moment with (from) someone else, and not even know their first name?