Domenico Scarlatti

Last night I watched a man smoking out of his attic window. It was therapeutic; the way he inhaled deeply before blowing out the smoke in a long straight cloud. He was a non-smoker as a rule, but was smoking a discrete one for peace of mind. Perhaps he waited for the dust to settle after a family feud. I had a strange feeling that he knew I was watching but didn't care. When the cigarette was done he stubbed it out and threw the evidence out the window. It made me think of back home in my mother's house. I had a window looking out over the walls into other people's gardens. I'd occasionally see people washing and cleaning, or even the next door neighbour chatting idly with some friend or relative, but it was never interesting. I wasn't connected with it, and there was nothing to see. This was different. This was a man feeling down on his luck. And somehow. My feelings mirrored his. It made me feel less alone.