The old lady with the grey face and pink dressing gown looks older each evening, which I suppose she is, but why, I wonder, does she sit there with wide open curtains in a brightly-lit lounge, slumped before the television for all to see? The middle-aged lady with the jet black hair, alone on her sofa with a bottle of wine and one glass most nights, almost all nights, with curtains wide open and her solitude lit up for all to see. The inhabitants of number 29, with curtains drawn all of the time, day and night, rain and shine. Why are they never looking out, but forever shut in, for none to see? The dog, I understand. Big golden retriever with paws over the back of a soft chair forever watching everything there is to see. And out there, walking, walking, walking, there is always me. I walk as the darkness falls most evenings, and glance briefly in windows with curtains open and evening lives lit up to see. This evening, an old lady sleeping before a flickering screen. A grey-haired man supping beer. A young boy at a kitchen table, head sunk forward in the appearance of despair. A beautiful woman serenely sipping what looks like gin. Two men playing chess, and the big golden dog again at the window, looking suspiciously at me, as I walk, and walk, and wonder about what I see; and ask myself again, do they leave these views of their lives open for the entertainment of them, or of everyone else, including me?
