Smoker’s Window

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She opens the fridge door, about to produce some goods to appease her compulsive nibbling. As if she was about to eat her heart out, her nerves away. She has been forgetting to take her fluoxetine pills over the last few weeks. 

Poor soul. She can feel doom looming around. 

The fridge is new but the edges are dirty, smudged with the hummus bought in the lower-range supermarket across the main road. 

The music in the outside is way too loud and gets in the way of her convoluted thoughts, yet she cannot close the window. This is the soundtrack of her anxious weekend. Spring is in the air and the atmosphere gets too stuffy with cauliflower cream smell coming from next door – the neighbours are probably getting ready for their mid-season detox. 

She looks across the recently demolished block of flats. Just one big void, leaving a big space that just gets filled with junk and amateur construction utensils. Junk and distorted kitchenware too. 

And the left-over bread that she keeps throwing out in the dark of the night. She hopes the ubiquitous pigeons will be feeding themselves off old rusty crusts during the sunny mornings. 

Just one big void. 

And then she notices the open window. The insolent sideways stare. The cigarette smoke. Invading her sacred privacy.

Smokers! Get back indoors. Smoking is terrible for your lungs. I want to nibble my anxiety away without any insolent onlooker. Smoke away and close that window for once. And get some curtains along the way too. 

I, like her, am a serious nibbler. And an anxious person, every now and then. 

Not long ago, I was a smoker too. 

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Woman. Floaty. Attached. Dettached. Sudden. Note-scribbler. Citizen of the world. Travelling to the moon and back.

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