There’s a young couple arguing outside my window. It’s just after 9 a.m. and this is not my typical morning view—it feels like the channels on my TV are all mixed up and I’ve found Jerry Springer where I was expecting the weather report. Most arguments happen on this street between midnight and 4 a.m., when alcohol-fueled misunderstandings spill over from bars on the avenue. We’re right in the middle of the block and the arguments always peak—or maybe the arguing female needs a high-heel break—right outside my window. Tears flow as freely as accusations, and I can never resist hopping out of my bed for a nosey peek. It’s like looking outside my window and inside someone else’s.
But this is a daylight-fight and I can see her blotchy face and unkempt hair, his wrinkled shirt and tired shoulders. A 9 a.m. fight can only mean last night was an all-night fight. They lower their voices and move apart as two strollercizing moms puff by, a little later than usual today and moving too fast to notice love falling apart, right on our street.
I see it ... right outside my window.
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