MargenFrom my window I can see the house across the street, identical to mine: the same roof, the same railings, the same window in the same place. For years I have not really looked at it, the way you do not look at your own hand.
One sleepless night I leaned out and saw that in the living room, at that impossible hour, there was a light on. And a man standing there, still, looking out of the window towards here. Towards me. With my face.
I raised my hand, slowly, to greet him or to frighten him, I do not know which. He did not raise his. Only then did I notice that his living room was on my right, and mine is on my left. That everything, in his house, was the wrong way round.
Like in a mirror. I lowered my hand. His was still up there, waiting, on the side that did not match. And I understood, with a cold weight in my stomach, which of the two of us was the reflection.