He knew everyone’s secrets, and the balcony was his only accomplice. He knew that the twin girls across the street with the curly chocolate hair squashed bugs and collected cucarachas in a mason jar they kept hidden in their bedroom on the fourth floor, presumably under the bed. He knew that Marta got into an altercation with her boyfriend, the tall and lanky one who walks with his shoulders thrown back, chest out like a proud lion. She walks with her head down, eyes focused on the ground darting forward, shoulders slightly stooped and he knew why. He knew that the elderly woman on the third floor was having an affair and he knew who it was with – the mailman. He took no pride in this knowledge, however; she was far too obvious with the affair, leaving the french door slightly ajar, letting the white curtains dance in the…