I see a mistress through my bedroom window. A limp architecture, garnished in sour grapes secret, lying beside the queen-size bed of her apartment. One hand little inside her underwear other on Mr. Mercedes sitting on her face. The faint sound of music from 80’s and smoke lifting from ashtray tells me she is not dead, maybe just lost in another dimension. I’m not sure though because she isn’t moving but I hope from the bottom of my stomach that just this once I’m not wrong. As I scan her body for any signs of life, my heartbeat ascends, not because from 88th floor I can feel the buzzing traffic beneath me but because she is like fine wine, like fine art, and I cannot stop my mind from imagining things I would do if I were in that room right now. I take a step behind, sit on the windowsill and watch her. Like a ghost.