voyeur-kitchen

The kitchen in that Antwerp double salon. Dim light from a single bulb. Smell of cheap perfume, sweat, and fried onions. I’d come for supper, like always. Six months working nearby. Bénédicte behind the red curtain in her room, vitrine glowing. Sometimes free by 9:30. Tonight, occupied. Christine waves me in. ‘Wait here.’ Heart starts…