The Son of a Neigbour
The son of a neighbor I live in wasteland of rundown residential tower blocks, a low income housing on the outskirts of Paris. I’m a woman of 37, slender, quite beautiful, with a certain taste for drugs, celebration and a distaste for work. In these HLM housing blocks you don’t really know your neighbors well. In fact, you have no idea, who lives beside you. I passed the stairway on a dull afternoon as woman asked me if I did have any baking ingredients. She was a bit older than me, a moroccan woman. She seemed a bit stressed telling me she needed the ingredients quickly because she did not have the time to go shopping. I told her I’ll take a look and bring her what I have. It was not much because I’m …