He drank, he set his coffee, he smoked, on the ground of the fire escape, and he smoked to watch the sellers below on the streets two for one special and the people whipping by. Basilio nudged the newspaper with his toe, then reached down, and drank and smoked and smoked to look over his shoulder, and to the left, down, and over his shoulder to the left, to the pink curtains breezing from the next apartment’s window. Laced and frilled, lazing. Shouts and tires, the screech of children ah ha hello! laughing, distracted him for a moment, then his mouth twisted into a wry smile from thoughts, and the shuffle clunk soft eyes, distracted his eyes left. Following the wicker basket, following the blonde head, soft eyes, came a body pulling itself from the widow, and then, soft white hands, which smoothed down a pink dress. Soft eyes, soft white hands, lifting from the wicker basket, soft hummings of I’m gonna love you cut short to the breaking voices below. The eyes met Basilio’s, then lowered to the basket, to the washed clothing, and hung them on a blue clothesline and raised the humming, the eyes again to Basilio’s. Then away, go, the blushing smile. Basilio picked up the newspaper and shifted his body towards the voice, began the gentle rocking from the hips. Inside the pink dress, the hips moved smoothly, back of the blonde head turned and the eyes met Basilio’s. Widened wet and raped. Handsome Basilio, charming no? drank and smoked as the dress vanished into the curtains flutter, and he smoked to watch the people below as he buttoned back and wiped his hands on his jeans and placed the newspaper on the ground.