Wilco playing in the background, soft, slow. Melancholy for a song asking its intended to cheer up. Across the road, the usual midnight mysteries.
Windows on the top floor light up, whiteness flooding out into the drunken street, the pelleting snow. I could never understand it, this sudden awakening of a space seemingly empty.
Beneath it are three stories, all offices. The large French windows allow one to look in: a known espionage. The fetish of looking on with the risk of being discovered.
What is the general etiquette for spies who make eye contact? I attempted a hesitant wave once, I was too late in deploying it, however. The receiver had already looked away.
Our 'envois' are out, now. Floating through the west's winds, mingling with the inebriated shrieks of a Friday night. A message is never truly received, one might argue.
These little 'billet doux' we send one another against our own will, or intention, eternally wafting through the waves.