There is a man walking down the street outside my bedroom window. He does that a lot, walking on that one strip of pavement, every morning and every afternoon.

I like to believe his name is something exotic, like Giuseppe or Fabio. He doesn’t look very exotic, but he has kind eyes so I think he deserves to be a Fabio.

In my head Fabio works as a criminal inspector and likes to play the piano and sail whenever he’s not busy working.  He used to play polo when he was young but discovered he liked chess more and tried to pursue a career.

He’s quite interesting, my Fabio.

One day he’ll see me watching him from my window and wonder who I am. He’ll make up stories in his head about my life and give me an exotic name because I look ordinary and boring but seem like a nice person who deserves an exotic name. Maybe I’ll be Martinique or Cleopatra.

Then he’ll wave at me and I’ll wave back. We could become friends at first. He comes to visit me after work and we’ll play chess. After a few months he’ll invite me to his place and I’ll be embarrassed because the elevator isn’t working, but he will happily carry both me and my chair up the stairs (it’s only two stories after all). I would blush when he plays the piano because the song he’s playing is about me. He even wrote it himself!

We will both confess our love the day after and elope to France where we would grow old together. When Fabio is old he won’t be able to carry me or the wheelchair. But he’ll help me in any way he can.

Outside my window, the street is empty again.

No Fabio around.

I’m sure he’ll see me tomorrow.