In my neighbors, I’ve found the delight of eavesdropping.
Illustration by Audrey Weber
Just a few weeks after moving into my building, I rode the elevator with an old woman carrying home a dead chicken. Two stiff pink legs and claw-like feet jutted out from the woman’s plastic bag. It was winter, and we were both bundled for the cold. I had been out doing some shopping, and so, apparently, had she. I returned with a roll of Mentos and a pint of non-dairy creamer; she came home with a dead chicken.
Even though I hadn’t met this woman before, I knew what apartment she lived in. I knew the color of her kitchen, where she kept the big pot in which she’d boil the bird, and that the cabinet above the kitchen sink was missing a door. I knew all of these things because I spy on my neighbors, and I’d already watched her.
A couple days after moving in, I sat at my desk in our office, looking out a back window. The view here reminds me a little of "Rear Window," except the grassy back courtyards of Hitchcock’s film have been replaced by the neighboring bu…
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