Voyerism

From the exact spot where I spend most of my days, the upper corner of the wood dining room table, I can observe two other people's lives, which by the way seem just as varied as mine.

Bare chested man across the parking lot hovers in a seated position by the window. I only see the pillows he leans against. Hopefully the glass is reasonably solid. Maybe he is a home-working professional or else he counts his drug money all day long. Then to my right, in very close proximity, is expat lady as I call her. I think she is English or maybe Australian and she spends most her days outside the scope of my prying eyes, but in the afternoons she flops herself onto some balcony chairs, adjusts her bathing suit to minimize tan lines and then gets up every two seconds to take care of something inside the house, only to come back out a minute later. She then readjusts her bathing suit and pretends to relax again.

I kind of want to meet my new friends. I hope they think I am either a lady preparing for her evening cooking show, a PhD student researching sexual abnormalities in primates or an astronaut.