If you had looked in my window at 4:47 pm Pacific Time yesterday, you being the kindly drug dealers across the street who play with remote control cars when not conducting illicit exchanges, and who have not parked your trucks in my driveway since I wrote the note in purple ink with smiley faces and placed it under your supped-up windshield wiper.
Or you being the Naked Neighbor. Is that your lover or your roommate, and why is he clothed while you always stand around at the window bare?
Or you being the child of indeterminate gender who roller skates.
Or you being the upstairs neighbor's children with your joyful pounding who try to be quiet for me. You don't have to be quiet for me.
Or you being anyone passing by on your way up from the subway, your arms full of flowers, your bag full of bread, your glasses fogged up, your eyes full of what waits for you at home.
Or you being you, whoever you are.
You would have seen me dancing, backlit by the kitchen, dancing, my hair in long pigtails, my body in a gray baby doll top with the small moth hole, a short denim skirt, pink ballet tights and slouchy brown suede boots. Dancing. Scared, excited, hopeful, guarded, grateful, joyful, awkward, did I mention excited, twirling my hair, spilling the drink on my desk, dancing.
For a long time.
