Long in the night, when lights are turned out and people are snoring away, while they cuddle into their pillows on single beds, she is awake, out of her covers and gazing into a mug of tepid coffee. Sometimes, she listens to yesteryear songs on the radio and taps away on her laptop. Sometimes, she just drapes her shawl around her shoulders and takes a walk in the lawns, with the cold breeze caressing her face. It is difficult to gauge her expression. Sometimes, I feel she is under constipation and sometimes, she has that faraway look. I wonder if she is thinking about the garbage grounds or is she thinking about her love life. Sometimes, I find her just sitting on the bench with a book with the whole world tuned out. In such times, I have often seen a myriad of emotions pass on her emotions. I wonder, who laughs out loud at something they are reading in fiction? She does. Sometimes, she is carrying bottles from one building to another. Most times, I feel like a stalker. May be I am. She is, however, a book with its shades. I have heard her shout in the most un-womanly manner and calling decent girls weird manly nicknames. And I have heard her talk in the most polite manner and sipping coffee in the most ladylike manner. She seems to be her own boss, deciding where to wander and where to stop. She is an enigma, I want to explore. She, all I can say, is like Moriarty, with so many facets yet to be known.