Legs.

74. Guests of our apartment, when standing next to the window of the living room, often comment on the fantastic view we have. "Is that Parc du Cinquantenaire?" they would ask, or, "It seems so peaceful from here." Not Pierre. After a few minutes of observation from the window: "She has a negative-angle leg."

In someone else's living room, a girl in a summer dress is bouncing around, one of her legs, from below the knee, bearing the shape of a question mark. As I try to follow the bouncing motion to determine whether the question mark is an optical illusion, more of the leg is being revealed. It takes me a several seconds to realize that the summer dress has disappeared all together.

"Maybe we should stop looking." "Yeah," he pauses for a few seconds, while continuing to look. "How old do you think she is?"

75. "Ouch, my knee!" In the middle of the wide Avenue d'Auderghem, he's bending over, hands clutching one knee, face distorted in agony, seemingly unable to move. We've just come out of La Porte du Bengale; I've already completed the crossing when he suddenly looks glued to the ground. The pedestrian light is still green, no car around. After checking these facts, I laugh, vaguely aware that he actually had recent problems with the knee.

The pedestrian light turns red. As cars start approaching, he's limping over to complete the crossing. "Why didn't you help?" "You were pretending!" "What if it was true?" "Well, was it?" "No." 

It's hard to say which one of us should get a new friend, the one whose friend pretends to be hurt in the middle of the road or the one whose friend doesn't help.