His life, so dull and standard, he lamented everyday in a series of teatime discussions with his cat. But she was always uninterested or argumentative, and never made a worthwhile contribution to the table. He leaned back in his wooden chair and wondered if anyone would ever be interested in how horrifically, ghastly normal his existence was. How could he ever make anything wonderful when he'd never felt anything wonderful? Well, there was that one time when he was taking the trash out and he saw that girl from the third floor. He saw her not notice him and now she's gone. Moved away or dead, he doesn't know anything at all. It would be worse if he did, he supposes. Rising crooked, he went to look out of the window and rested his head on the glass. He noticed a terrible act being committed in the alley below. Oh, just someone doing laundry.
He banged his head on the glass and wished that something at all would happen. Then, that girl. He spied her from his room. But, oh, that was too much of a something to suddenly come to terms with, and what could he do? In a decision uncharacteristic, he tossed his cat out the window and made for the alleyway on the pretext of fetching her. When he arrived, her husband had pointed that cat out as the one they had lost some months ago. They thanked him without asking his name and the two were off.
Climbing the stairs back up, he wondered how he could have failed to notice her spouse, and he knew the cat wasn't hers, but what could he say? So he went on having teatime discussions with nobody, and almost felt more satisfied to talk to himself because there were still surprises, but maybe only because he forgets. But it doesn't matter, and the alleyway is empty now, and that's fine, he tells himself, that's fine.
