I saw her again the other afternoon. I was balancing my son on a wall of the terrace so he could see the cats and chickens in the yard across the way, and there she was in the street below, peeking in the window of my basement room to see if I was there. We saw each other from the wrong angle and there was nothing for either of us. She ran away. Her narrow hips intrigued me, but only my grosser appetites, those devoted to G-d and Beauty.
I have locked myself in here for a week. It is a foul sunken pit. It is now the sixth day of a cosmetic fast. My face is too fat. Foul sunken pit is not a metaphor for solitude. The room is below street level and I have just fouled my trousers for some odd nervous reason.
She just came to the window! the blonde child with four or five friends. I could hardly see their faces, the light was all in here and none on the street. I couldn’t tell which face was hers, was somewhat relieved—I knew I couldn’t summon a greeting. Then she tapped on the window, I saw which one was her, and she called my name—Leonarde, good health to you! and they ran off.