The boy upstairs brings me flowers everyday. He leaves them by the door and expects that I see them when I wake up and pick up my morning’s newspaper .I hate it when he’s sleeping late, or when it rains, or when he’s with some bitch who has her arms around him. He works for a big multi-national company in the south of this city where they round up the best people that it has to offer and set them at the service of the big machines that turn it, that set it running and keep it that way. He works all day, and returns home, a pile of dogged bones and frayed dreams with me in them, sometimes.

He never did bring me any flowers the first month that I was here. He brought them to the girl he was living with, and in those days my mornings were about locking eyes with him on his way to work while I was walking past on the balcony with a steaming mug of tea. In those days the longings I had were for my ex-boyfriend’s picture, something I had never been used to; the image of a man , as opposed to the full blown memory of him.

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