The man whose apartment mine looks into has two daughters
in, I’d guess, their early teens. He works from home, on two computer screens
that face me, a changing lineup of street maps and aerial photos.
At first I mistook the daughters for young employees, one of them,
the first time I saw them arrive, grasping his shoulders while he sat
at the desk, the other flouncing onto the sofa, the silhouette
of her legs over its arm. And I wondered what kind of operation
he was running over there. But then something subtle
in their manner, collectively, set me straight.
He always has to work a little longer after
they arrive home and sometimes I’ll catch him doing even
a bit more as I’m turning down my blinds when the dark
has fully dropped.
My own desk is also the kitchen table and after several