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proof there's still a little British among us.

I've lived in my apartment for three years now. I’ve been thinking of moving for the last two. That's neither here nor there, unless you see a posting for a place with space and a patio at an egregiously low price somewhere along Dundas, or Queen West, or College.

Point is, my apartment is actually perfect, with one critical design flaw. My bedroom windows open onto my neighbour’s escape hatch. He and the parade of women that tramp in and out of his home are required to more or less pass through my living quarters by way of a fire escape anytime they wish to get in or out, which is frequently.

(Though I admit it’s cooled since April, there was, for a time, a spectacular stream of women. Like, I thought my neighbour had a twin.)

Again, though, the point. The point is, by now, surely this man knows every intimate detail of my life. He’s heard all of the scripts for the new TV show, he’s endured about 50 episodes of Friday Night Lights, he’s probably on a first name basis with my dad. He’s heard the break up, the make-up, and the break up again. Plus, I’m pretty sure he caught glimpses of a recent period when I suspected I’d missed my calling as a Bollywood dancer. Also, my room gets messy, and I bet he judges me. I live too far below to reciprocate. This irritates me, since it feels like a class thing. All this we share and still, we’ve never said a word to one another. More importantly, we’ve never even acknowledged the other exists.

Once I caught him peering into my window while he was on the phone on his patio-- sounded like an accountant. I think we both work from home, which I find troubling. Anyway, when I turned around, he pretended to have something in his eye and rushed inside. Sometimes I throw caution to the wind and leave the blinds open while I sleep. I do not do this on weekends if I’ve stayed in. My neighbour’s a party animal and, at this particular juncture, I am not. Instead, I build a myth.

But, I get it – this silence between us. It’s the unspoken rule – the reason you avoid eye contact on streetcars or in elevators. It's the fear of commitment, the fear of entrapment, the fear that everyone you don’t know is a cold-blooded maniac.

Once, when he was moving in, my neighbour’s dad and I made accidental eye contact while he was climbing the stairs with a box of hockey equipment, and I was unsticking my window. The dad wears LL Bean. His sweater was inside out and I could read the label. I heard him gasp. Actually gasp. Probably thought I was crazy.

Which brings me, at long last, to the actual point. Because now I wonder if I should be a little offended. There are no two ways around it. This man—my neighbour – has definitely seen me naked. And, no doubt, he will see me naked again. And, I figure, based on deductive reasoning alone, this man has seen a lot of women. A. Lot. Of. Women. It is obvious to me that this gentleman likes women. A. Lot. Of. Women. So, should I be concerned that he continues to ignore me? Wouldn’t it just be proper to acknowledge me, even apologetically? Sort of a, “if we didn’t live so close I would probably hit on you too.” Or, how about a thumbs up sometime when he passes by en route to yoga? I’d settle for a nod or a smile – a fucking laugh between strangers who probably know each other better than he knows this latest lady friend.

I could really help him with his relationships. We could have a code – like Woodward and Deep Throat. I catch him wooing a woman up the stairs and the next morning he stares into my window for the summary judgment.


Keep Looking.





Stay away from that bar




What do you think of this outfit?

Too revealing?


It is absolutely time to move.


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maybe he's a gigolo?

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