He is making a house.
No not a lego house. But an actual house.
Let me be politically correct here. He is not making a house, neither is he building it. He is the landowner and a soon-to-be homeowner. But he, using his own labor, is not making the house.
He intrigues me. Every time I leave my on-top-of-a-garage apartment, then walk the moss-laden galli for a minute, and prepare to turn left onto the main road, he is there, looking at me.
I thought it was a once-in-a-lifetime thing. People stare at strangers all the time. But only once. Or maybe twice.
I have caught him staring at me twenty-three times. After noticing his intent gaze on me in five different occasions, I had hoped that he would stop. You know how the saying goes – fool me once, fool me twice, shame on you if you fool me thrice, shame on me if I think after five everything will be nice.
But no, things are not nice. His stare induces in me a kind of discomfort that cannot be described by words such as ‘deep’ and ‘profound’.
Why, in the name of Dog, is he staring at me? Maybe because he is lazy and therefore making a house.