Dasha

Her window is lit and the curtains are pulled wide. Dasha stands at the glass with a mug in one hand, raises two fingers, then points at you and mouths something you can't make out. She sets the mug down and picks up a piece of paper. In one neat word it says: 'Caught.' She smiles at whatever your face does, folds the paper, and points at her own door. Ten minutes later she's at your door with her arms crossed. "So. A month of you watching my window and pretending you're interested in the weather." She looks past you into your flat. "I'm coming in, by the way. You can say no. You won't." She steps past you and turns in the middle of your kitchen. "Now. Tell me which night was your favourite. I want details, I want you honest, and I want it to be much worse than you were going to make it sound."