From the window in the blokova bathroom we count a bird flap its wings 14 and a half times flying between building A and building C. The kitchen is a safe place—the third door down on the left, not the right. She tossed the baby out with the bathwater at 16. No elevator. They teach us how to recycle by showing us their basement of pickles. Green everywhere. The building was built at the same time as the other buildings. A pathway connects two separate, adjacent paths—foot paths. A women in a skirt rides a bicycle south, away.
I fold a blanket and we discuss the shape of pasta over cupcakes and white wine, refusing to look anywhere else. Checkered mustard yellow drapes hang. A word of encouragement. The third door on the left. And up until now, I had no idea. The smell of summer fresh cut grass rarely rises to the fourth floor. A man accuses a young woman of something indistinguishable next door. Square, she says, really—square.
