Fragment of an Imagined Kitchen

Sat drinking a post-work half-pint of Doombar in the Duke of Norfolk with Em. It's about 8:00pm. Another late shift, then, after work, looking around the Jamie Oliver branded shop down Western Road, looking for Christmas presents. I admire the packaging, and wonder if rubbing duck fat on yourself would keep you warm in the snow.
The dark interior of the Duke of Norfolk, and I sit with my back to the rest of the pub. In the other half, I hear a rowdy group of drinkers who have long lost any sense of goodwill and are spiralling quickly into an ugly, shifty, nasty place. They have accents that sound like someone taking the piss out of Eastenders. I wonder why the barman doesn't tell them to be quiet, but he just looks scared.
Past Em's right shoulder and out of the window, I look up the house opposite. look up at a window on the second or third floor. Just a fragment of a room, and for some reason - maybe the light - I think that it is a kitchen. I see the dark bob of a man's head, a shoulder. Both seem unconnected to each other. Floating bits of clothed bodies. A strange anatomy lesson. Does he wear glasses? I want him to, but I think my memory is providing these spectacles. The body shifts and is gone.
Where has he gone? The light in that imagined kitchen is still switched on. I still see that angle of wall, of ceiling. Rare joints of architecture in this abstraction of an evening butcher. Maybe there is something in the oven and he has left it there to cook or warm up. Maybe he stands in the doorway of a room into a living area, talking to someone else whom I imagine is sitting down. I imagine them to be students, perhaps studying science or enginerring. I don't know why.
These imagined people with their imagined dinners and imagined conversations. They have no idea I am watching a fragment of their window, wandering on their lives, as deep and rich and mysterious as anyone else's.
I am at home now sat in the living room, the television playing some television movie about a haunted submarine I am not watching. I wonder if that kitchen is now dark, all food eaten, all conversations done.
I imagine someone in that darkened window looking down into the Duke of Norfolk where I sit, imagining someone looking back up at them, and here I am halfway across town writing about them both.