on the different heavens

MUNICH, GERMANY- some time ago:
The sound of the Muslim's prayer in the morning.
He is up at dawn, sing-songing to the southeast where the bright orange disk of the sun grows with every passing minute.
I wake to it and stand on my feet, shirtless, and tie the strings of my flannel pants together so they won't fall from my waist as I walk to the sink to wash my face.
The morning rushes on. The man prays with it.
I walk out into the dawn, the towel across my bare shoulders, drying my face and hands. A breeze meets me and I shiver with it, then my body adjusts.
The Muslim prays on. He doesn't notice me at first, but then I see his eye dart to the side where I now stand as he bows his head again and touches it to the ground and continues. I walk to the edge of my balcony three stories from the ground and stare at the early risers of the city, then walk back and decide, instead of walking back inside, to stay in the breeze a little.
I lean against the white wall, still cool from the night, and watch him.
He finishes his prayer minutes later.
I step forward, hardly thinking to myself that the two of us have become great neighbors in such little time.
"You think He hears you this early?" I ask, half being a smartass. "I mean, you woke me up."
He does not look at me, but he smiles. "He hears at all times," he tells me in his thick African accent that doesn't match the pale German landscape around us. He tidies up the balcony he had been praying on, picking up his rug- or whatever you call it- and straightens two plastic chairs and his round little table.
"Come in and eat with me." He gestures me into his side of the apartment and he leaves the balcony and walks into his kitchen and I follow him because I'm not in the mood to make myself anything, still without a shirt.
"Something greasy?" He asks. "Are you hungover this morning?"
"Not yet." Truth was I was still drunk.
"I heard you come back last night. Alone this time?" He begins to fry something in a pan on the stove and brews water for tea.
"Yeah. Unfourtantly."
He laughs.
"You Latins. You only care about two things: sex and drinking."
"You should try it sometimes. It can be fun."
"Well, sad for me. I can not taste the fermentation of wheat, nor grape." He sets two cups down.
"Probably a good thing," I say. "Can get you into trouble."
And then I go on and ask him what in the world would possess him to wake up at this hour everyday, still half being a smart ass, and he simply says "Heaven" and I guess I can understand that.
Makes more sense then not.
"Probably a good thing," I tell him, and he agrees.
We keep talking, a little about heaven and God and all that fun stuff, and we eat and we drink the warm tea and we talk some more, still about heaven but also now about soccer, which is a little easier for me.
I finish my food and thank him for it and he welcomes me back for more whenever I want it and I tell him to be careful what he wishes for and then leave to go change and get ready for the day ahead of me.
He does the same.
I leave.
It's nice that we've become neighbors.
It's nice when two totally different people become friends.