I've never met the people who live in the blue house. I see them scurry by, rushing when it's raining, or strolling when the night is warm and the only light come from the post at the end of the street. I see them gathering their mail, or watering their plants, or even just staring out the window maybe watching the doves or listening to the clamor from the Tuesday market in the square their windows face. They appear to be friendly. Sometimes we see each other on the street, or staring out of our own windows. The man will flinch as if he'd just touched a live wire and dart around the corner or close the curtain and dip away from the window. The woman always smiles and nods, and I smile and nod back. I have heard their voices; his quiet and rasping like a rusty gate heard far down the lane while hers, while also quiet, sounds like Debussy on the piano.
I saw her at the market once, and we had the following conversation:
Me: The bread is extra crisp today (we shopped at the same bakery).
Her: Yes, yes it is. Harold will love it.
I wonder if they know they're my best friends?
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