teeny tiny charcuterie boards laden with cheese

One day there was a woman reading on one of the back balconies, the one with the most plants, a cat in her lap. We nodded hello but that was it. I imagined myself similarly positioned. Could I grow that many plants? Do I want a cat? Some months later, there was a woman, I think the same woman, in front of the same building with a suitcase and a cat carrier. Maybe going on holiday? She was waiting for a taxi and seemed perhaps a little impatient but waiting for taxis often looks like this. A day or two later, the front windows of the apartment that align with that back balcony, assuming their apartment layout is the same as mine, were open, and music blasting out. Maybe she doesn't like this music, and the chance to blast it is in her absence. Maybe the cat doesn't like it, and now that the cat's away, the mice can listen to yacht rock with impunity. There's a mouse party, tiny mouse cocktails. I don't even make this happen, my brain does this for me. More likely there are two humans living in the apartment and one has gone out and the other is listening to music and that's all, though I'm sad to let my tiny mouse swizzle sticks go. Later I'm taking the stairs and I hear a door slam and think: fight. no, wind. or possibly excitement. There was a woman outside ringing a doorbell when I got there and she entered the stairwell behind me and now she's not there, so she's gone into some apartment below mine, which could be the one with the most plants and the yacht rock. I'm stringing together whole narratives. I haven't seen the cat lady on the balcony lately. Has she moved out? The plants, which I had presumed were hers, are still there. But some people walk away from plants when they're walking away from other things that are harder to leave, so that's no evidence of a planned return. Could be anything. Maybe you are thinking the same story I am. Jimmy Stewart, confined to a wheelchair, has nothing on me and my imagination, though I haven't started thinking about murder yet. I caught myself standing under the window to see what music, if any, would drift out. It's the same but not as loud which could mean less emotion or could mean nothing. I like yacht rock for cleaning, myself, though I have been trying to set spotify to the top hits of the week so I know what the kids these days are listening to; someone walking under the window could think I was enjoying brat summer but in fact I am, like with most of my life, sitting beside the action and watching it with curiosity and a gift for amusing myself by making up stories that are probably certainly not true or they might be.