You can't see me, but I am peeking through the second story window, watching you rummage through the free box I put on the curb last night. You are kneeling on the sidewalk, your dog's leash in one hand as you sift so tenderly through the box. You pick up a fancy art book I "borrowed" from work, turn it over, flip through it with one hand, and set it aside. You lift a pack of incense, given to me by an ex-boyfriend but with a potent perfume-y aroma he should have known better than to buy for me. You sniff the box gingerly and set it aside. You lift your head, glance around you from your low perch, wondering if anyone is watching you. There is a bag of art supplies, some paints and brushes that I bought to motivate myself to paint, but never used. With your dog-leash hand, you hold onto a tube and unscrew the lid, checking for dried paint. I know you will find no dried paint on those unused tubes. You put it back in the bag. You squirm a bit in your crouch, your legs must be getting tired. A sweater, which belonged to my mother, the shade of split-pea soup with a turtle neck collar. You thumb gently over fabric, deliberating whether this garment is hideous or trendy. You place the book and incense in the bag of art supplies. You lift the bag, and set it back down. You touch the sweater again, petting the sleeve. You stand up, glancing around you as you pick up the bag and the sweater, fumbling your dog leash. You hold the sweater. You drop the sweater back in the box. Enjoy the art supplies.