The lights come on, I track her moves: locking the door, crossing the room. She's on the phone again, and when she laughs I feel my blood rushing - I feel my blood rush to my heart...
I call her up and disconnect, wait by her house once more to check, stare through the window of her kitchenette, and then I follow her down underground escalators, hiding behind my newspaper until the time when we're together.
So here we are, alone again; I'm in the dark, she's in her frame, her window bay.
I play the film back through my mind with a few new scenes I've designed; maybe I'll write her one or two more lines, and then I'll follow her down underground escalators, hiding behind my newspaper until the time when we're together.