There’s a house-cafe on the street corner. It’s incongruously placed in the middle of the city, where you expect to find tall office buildings and functional apartment blocks – not so much a two-storey house with a front yard and parking space.
In front, in the yard is a mini-cart. It’s not unlike a street cart, and there’s a little porch-type space parallel to it. A couple of velvety-looking armchairs dot the yard, and the cart looks like you could walk up to it and order a fresh juice or quick pastry in a paper bag.
Today there’s a woman sitting in the upstairs window. She’s looking out the window and if I had to guess I’d think she was sitting on a window seat, not a proper chair. If I focus, I can picture this room as a bedroom, maybe right above the front doorstep so someone could hover in the window and watch visitors arriving. Somehow, I’ve never managed to picture the layout of the rest of the house.
There’s a thin gauzy curtain between her and the rest of the world, but it affords minimal privacy: maybe she’s watching the outside world watch her.