Life from a balcony

Last night I ate dinner on my balcony for the first time. I frequently eat breakfast out there, at 7am, standing and staring into the layers upon layers of 7 story apartment buildings and wondering about the day, chewing and waiting for the coffee to brew. The metal spoon against the glass bowl always sounds really loud and embarrassing at that time and I try to not let them meet, but that's surprisingly difficult to do. There's usually this guy across the street and one floor up out on his balcony, too, but he's always staring in the opposite direction, puffing on cigarettes. As far as I know, he has never taken notice of me, nor been bothered by my breakfast utensil clinks. He just sits and stares and, other than his smoking arm, doesn't move for the entire 10 minutes that I am out there. His stillness and smoke make him seem sad to me. Like the day is too difficult to bear and the people milling about 6 stories below are too terrifying to face. But he can't do that forever and every day I hope he'll get up or turn around or go inside or do SOMETHING before I have to leave, but that day has yet to come. I silently bid him farewell and go about my day and hope for better luck and higher spirits tomorrow. Last night, though, I discovered that everything balcony-related is different in the late hours. Everyone's on their balcony, eating as a family, shaking out laundry, watching the city lights slowly turn on, entertaining friends, chatting across alleyways with neighbors. The clinks of my own cutlery don't even register in comparison to the nighttime balcony life of my neighbors. It's like a little sneak peek into a more intimate side of their lives. Like having the walls of all of their living rooms removed for me to see, and it's delightful. Especially when it comes to my sad neighbor across the street. Last night, as I slowly worked on my plate of sauteed pumpkin and carrots, I could hear him telling what I assume, based on the laughter, were jokes to his wife on their balcony while they ate. He was still smoking, but it had become the least of his mannerisms instead of his entirety. The darkness of the morning had evaporated and been replaced with a wide smile, a loud laugh, and a kind voice. I think I'd like to get to know him. I think I can relate to his reluctance to embrace the day, but his eventual acceptance and ultimate love of being alive. I can relate to not wanting the silence to end, but then also not wanting it to begin. And I can definitely relate to not being a morning person.

And now I'm going to go stand on my balcony for a while, listening to life and feeling like a part of something I'm really only a witness to.