There is a lady in her fifties who lives in the building opposite mine. Almost every morning, I see her put the pillows at the window to air them.
First, a piece of cloth to protect them from any dirt which might be living on the window-sill. Pillow number one. Pat it. Turn it over. Pat the second side. Pillow number two. Pat, turn, pat. Place next to pillow number one. Pillows three and four, on top of the first two. She takes her time. Always the exact same gestures. And then the night-gown. Shake, shake, imprison between pillows three and four, overlapping slightly for the purpose.
She comes back some time later, brings in the pillows, pulls the curtains – arranging the folds with care – and closes the window.
She never smiles. She doesn’t look happy. She doesn’t even really look there. I wonder what her life is.
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