I am in love with the girl next door. Actually, I am in love with an imaginary version of the girl next door.
I’ve never met her, and I know nothing about her, except that she has a beautiful singing voice. I have no idea what she looks like, or how she lives her life.
Of course, my imagination filled in all the blanks tonight, as I laid on the floor and listened. I can hear through my bedroom window. When the weather is nice, she likes to sit alone on her porch with her guitar. She strums quietly, humming wordless melodies. Sometimes, the melody catches hold of her, and she sings—hesitantly at first, but gradually overcoming her modesty, strumming louder and finishing the final chorus with abandon. I am smitten.
Once I heard her play a song she had written in the midst of a painful break-up. It was sweet and sad, about youthful love and lost innocence. I wanted to hear it again, and I had half a mind to shout my request out the window. But that would have spooked her and she’d never sing for me again.
I wonder who she is. How many times have I passed her on the sidewalk? Maybe that’s her on the el platform.
She’s singing again. I'm going to lie down and shut my eyes…and imagine.