This morning I woke up quite early after a big sleep with a great many weird dreams in which I was a keen, shrewd observer, thinking about the windows which were just covered with light-reflective film. Then I touched them, to see how they get hotter and hotter as the sun is rising.
As I went downstairs to get some sticky rice for breakfast, I saw an old man sitting on red leather chair out in the corridor of the third storey. He was dressed in a crimson tank top and shabby shorts, which seems to be the only clothing he has. I kept my eyes down, trying not to catch his, which is awkward in many cases and which may invite some efforts to start a brief dialogue from him.
Down on the road, I thought about those beaux guys I gazed at, those whose names I did not know and those whom I would barely see a second time. I thought I might have been going to a market, just to be in a market, to feel how it is being there, to see les gens, to inhale the smell of it… I thought how I love being alone on Sunday mornings, and how I may end up loitering around in parcs. The sticky rce seller was not there. Maybe she does not work on Sundays like everyone else. Maybe she falls ill.
Je rentre chez moi. And I thought about how much I want to have some jasmines just outside mon appartement. All of a sudden, a woman of thirty five, forty or so called me as I was passing by.
“Hey, boy! Boy!”
“Open the door” she told me.
I opened the door with the key and gave her back all the big lock and the key with two hands. She said nothing, gave no smile, with her lips curled a little bit. I walked a way, thinking about another version of her life in which she was locked inside by her boring, tyrannical husband, a typical office man perhaps, waiting for her lover to free her. I may have been the lover she was waiting for, we may have had sex after that, which would be my first sexual encounter with a woman.
I do not know her name, or even remember her face now. I will refer to her as the woman in a locked house.