He watches her motionless shape from the doorway.
Oh how he burns for her when she walks around in her underwear. That flannel shirt just hanging over her body, which protrudes slightly, and through the shirt seems to resemble misshapen lumps of clay. But the poor girl is gun shy, and it takes a forklift to raise her spirits. Her late father was a construction worker, see, whenever they pass the nine foot fences along the street that hide the machinery, her eyes just light up, and she claps her hands with glee like a child. On a good day she feels like talking. Usually she tells him stories, made up ones. He knows it too. (No one has been to Antartica twice in one year), and she often tells him how much she hates the cold and that’s why she settled in Tallahassee. She never goes home, there's nothing there for her. Not even a goldfish or a cat. She sleeps at his apartment and he enjoys her company. On her quiet days she just lies in his bed beneath a ragged quilt and she stares out the window like an invalid. Not a single movement, not even a visible blink of the eye.
Anna Bell sleeps softly with the pillow over her head. The pigeons have been disturbing her; he shoos them from the window, "Damned pigeons."