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| | jeudi, février 17, 2005

I’m not a stalker, far from it, but I must admit she's been provoking an unhealthy obsession in me. For some weeks now she makes me adjust my routines. For example when I go to work, I get off the bus one stop early so I can walk past her apartment, hoping she might come out so I can see her.
She lives in the apartment block next to where I work. It’s a shithole, a social welfare apartment of the worst kind. The car park is a garbage dump and the walls of the apartments look like they’re made of paper, graffiti tags scrawled all over them at eye-height and a bit lower imprints of dirty shoes from angry adolescents. The whole street is immersed in a feeling of desolation and hopelessness. It must be horrible to live there.

If I’m lucky, once a month on Tuesday, she puts out the empty bottles just when I pass.

She’s blonde, of average height. Her hair is short and spikey. She wears trainers and almost no jewellery, except for a series of earrings in her left earlobe. She's not what you call pretty and not exactly young. I bet she's well in her thirties.

Then why do I feel this urge to talk to her. I'd love to tell her to come with me and go somewhere nice. Away from work and the nasty concrete walls of her mediocre apartment.

I have planned to make contact today, should she come out of the front door when I walk past. Yesterday, before I went to sleep, I swore I would go up to her and look into her eyes.

It's 8:30, as usual, when I get off the bus. With every step I clench my hands into fists in my pockets, hoping she will be there.

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