There is this neigbour and I.

We never met, yet we seem to be living in unison. We wake up around the same time, take walks on the opposite sides of the lake, then head out. I don’t know where he is going, I usually go to the tavern for breakfast.

Sometimes I catch up with a friend, most times I eat alone, but not without the quiet company of the bartender who makes sure my coffee cup is full and there are no crumbs on the table. I hate crumbs, and even though I never parted this information on to him, somehow, he learned it. This shows that attentive bartenders still exist, though few and far between.

Anyway, my neighbour and I seem to come home around the same time. Sometimes my car is in the driveway first, then after ten minutes he arrives. Sometimes his truck is already parked, and I know he hasn’t been home for longer than ten. How do I know? The smoke starts coming out of his chimney as I enter my room.

I sit in front of the window with a cup of tea and a myriad of books, all of which I am reading at the same time, and I look across the lake and can see that things are quiet in that house as well. He seems to be living alone; I have a landlord occupying the upper rooms for half a week. Overall, it is a pretty quiet corner, and I like it this way. I think he likes it too.