She looks happy today. Content. I can’t reconcile her desire to wear such an unflattering type of pant with the general appeal of her overall body. She’s too short for them. Or maybe, she’s too tall? I don’t really know. Obviously, I care, though. No, I don’t really care. Where is she off to, today? In only the outfit and no extra layers, my guess is that she’s only running out to pick up something quick. Maybe a snack. Maybe lunch? It’s too early for lunch. Oh, her backpack, the tiny fucking thing. Where is she going? No, no, no! Your phone’s still plugged in! Oh, that-a-girl. And some water, as well? That’s a good idea. And off she goes. And start. If she has to wait for the elevator, I wonder how much time that takes. She really should take the stairs. Everyone should. Fucking elevators suck. No, that’s not true. Elevators are awesome. Gah. No, they suck. Ah ha, there she is, right on schedule. Fifty-three seconds. But where is she going? Oh, and now she’s gone. Resetting timer. Look into some sort of automated device that can alert me to her arrival and/or return.
She rummages and fiddles a bit with a large, cumbersome camera setup, plugs in the HDMI and flicks on the TV. The TV flickers on and blasts an annoying sound of static and friction. “Goddammit!” she yells; “This fucking thing!” Around to the backside of the black-and-white-only television, she moves and fiddles a homemade contraption that enables newer technologies the opportunity to interact with the ancient screen. A horn blares outside and draws her attention to the window.
Quickly, she runs to the pane just in time to watch a small scooter collide with a large SUV-type vehicle. She notes the time. A person lies, spread eagle, on the concrete. She checks the camera to ensure that it’s recording. With a separate device, she snaps a few dozen stills of the unfolding action below. She chuckles, “Those goddamn delivery drivers.” In minutes, policemen and paramedics arrive on the scene. She grabs a portrait of each uniformed personnel but can only collect the names of two of the six emergency responders. She grabs the phone book sitting behind her on the back of the couch, flips to the next free page, and jots down any relevant information. Looking up at the clock hanging on the wall above the three-television setup, she notes the time again. Within ten minutes, she notes, the crash site, injured person and driver have all been cleared away. “New record.”
As she finishes jotting down her notes, the woman catches her eye on the street below. “Ah, a coffee run … lame,” she whispers. “That was quick.” She grabs the binoculars on the table beside her and watches the woman enter the building. Camera still rolling, she sets another timer and retrieves the first timer.
A mere thirteen minutes and thirty-seven seconds later, she has returned. Waiting. Waiting now for her to enter the apartment. Bada-bing, bada-boom. One minute, fifteen seconds and she’s back. Will she disrobe? Is it an extended stay? Oh, wait. Two coffees. Someone else is coming. Who will it be? Or maybe, someone is there? No, I should know. Whom has she bought coffee for? We will soon see. Nope, not disrobing. Definitely, a guest is on the way.