The Other Window

The thing with rented flats is, they come in a bunch. Nice, familial housing societies look with disdain at bachelors and bacholerettes coming and staying in their divisively protected buildings. In order to not look at disdain at such 'bad influences' in the society, they tend to disallow them from staying there in the first place. As a result, places where flats are given out on rent, are not places where flats are not given out on rent.

The grammar in the last sentence is perfect. I am not sure about these two though.

Try shouting, "Time to pay the rent!" in one such place. With a sudden wop! sound, it will be as if someone just turned the whole place mute. What with people not wanting to be caught at their places where they would be spending their hard earned alone time at home in their rooms/ on the WC just to waste it on an extremely unrewarding and some say, redundant activity like paying rent. They would rather continue to watch porn, fantasize or both, instead. So, if you do shout, "Time to pay the rent!" in one such place, to let you not know that those who are there, are there, those who are there would shut off all their gadgets where they still have electricity, turn off the taps where they still have water and stop breathing where are they are not stoned immaculate. Or so the author seems to think.

She was standing there thus stoned. In the window. Safely inside. Physically. Thankfully, nobody was shouting "Time to pay the rent!" Surely not the dogs.

After a session of some well fermented and half dried resinous part of a cannabis plant, she was always attracted to purple and yellow. Looking out of her window gave her huge access to specks and blobs of purple and yellow. Having a mall visible from your house was thus, always a good thing. What with the neon signs to act as your personal visual entertainers and 24/7 general stores available for your thirst that resulted out of the finger crushing activity of preparing for and then rolling a nice fat joint... No wonder the rates of houses near malls are so high, she thought to herself in as possible a way as was in her state of non-mind.

That speck of purple that seemed to to be stuck somewhere in the glass of her window, how she wanted to hold it in her hand so that she would turn purple herself and could then simply look into the mirror whenever she wanted her purple fix! That seemed like a very good idea. Her hand rose to the window glass. The glass for some reason decided to not let her hand pass half-through as she intended. So she politely waited. She also thought she heard a mosquito buzz in her ear and bite on her neck. But it wasn't yellow, so she didn't bother with it.

Across the garden, on the other side of the rain, in another window, she saw someone trying to get purple too. So she hit the mosquito that was biting her and crushed him on the window pane. It was now time to go to bed, as the clock had declared 47 minutes ago. So she did after 30 minutes of politely waiting for the mosquito crushed under her hand to turn yellow so she could be too. The person in the other window had turned completely yellow now and she could see that he (it definitely was a he, or even probably) even had a nose for not breathing smoke out of, like even she had and did not.

So she went to bed. Tomorrow, in the advertising agency, where she worked, there was a lot of work to be done. Newspapers had to be read, coffee had to be drunk, lunch had to be thought of, a few phones had to be answered, lot more had to be indefinitely put on hold and people had to be cluelessly directed to other people who were clueless about what they were doing in life and the agency in general and in that order. A receptionist's job was a difficult one and she intended to leave no page unturned. Of the subscribed Debonair she would receive tomorrow, that is.

The End

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