A mannequin stares out my front window, her arm raised indeterminately towards the street. This evening, she wears a dress – a thigh-shy sequined shift which turns her torso into a crimson constellation. Passers-by all see stars; even the traffic lights go red.
I had always dreamed of a room with a view – until she moved in. Now I want for nothing. When I touch her, she does not reciprocate; but nor does she complain.
My friends do not understand; they linger outside, like customers, when they leave. I close the curtains and then we are alone. Love is simpler like this.