Shortlit

This is an odd little thing I wrote for myself-(it's kind of my attempt to emulate Anaïs Nin's short stories) but in the end, it's just a stupid little story that's easy to read because it's almost entirely simple sentences.

A few years ago I rented a small flat on la rue Saint-Sulpice in Paris. I was an aspiring artist and found myself alone for the first time in the big city.
As I sat in my room one night staring out at the swirling clouds, I noticed a light on across the courtyard. In a small, crowded room a strikingly beautiful girl sat alone at a table, seemingly contemplating the obscurity of the moonless Parisian night. She was close enough that I could read her expression; she had a prominent, haunting eyes and an intriguing smile.
While I watched from my window, she produced a bottle of wine from a cupboard and slowly poured herself a glass. After taking a few sips she rose, recorked the bottle, and, having placed it in the cupboard poured the remainderof her glass down the sink. With a hollow countenance she rose and drew the blinds, and it was with wonder that I regarded the thin slices of light which still emanated until sleep overtook me.
When I awoke it was late, and her yawning blinds revealed her absence.
Over the next few nights I witnessed the same sad scene: she would pour the glass, take a sip, and would drain it without fail.
I found the address of her building, and by studying the Annuaire par rues I noted all the likely phone numbers. One night as she sat holding her wine I called the numbers one by one. I saw her get up and walk towards the phone. As soon as she lifted her receiver, I began: I had dialed her nuber at random; I was lonely and needed a sympathetic ear. For the first time, I saw her smile falter, but instead of hanging up she listened intently.
After the conversation had gone on for several minutes, she made an odd remark: her face, it seemed, had been badly scarred on one side in a fire. I quickly replied that there was something she ought to know about me.
“You’re short”, she said simply.
We arranged to meet the next day at a café down the street which looked onto the Jardins de Luxembourg. After I hung up she went immediately to the window and closed her blinds for the night. I noticed that her glass was still on the table.
I purposely arrived at the café a few minutes early and sat down at the counter. It was Saturday and I watched the children playing in the park; the weather was fair, and the city was alive with sights and sounds.
The girl entered the café and scanned the tables. Her face, without blemish, radiated with a wistful expectation. In the doorway she seemed so tall. When she looked my way, I stared past her into the park. She stayed a short time, the same enigmatic smile playing about her lips. I watched as she walked out the door into the busy street.