Shuffle

Drifting through the alleyway, a woman stumbles up, a solitary afternoon heavy on her breath. She wants to know what I'm doing here, why I have a camera. She sways slightly while she talks, like the branches in trees around me. I tell her I like alleys. Her lips bunch up red and tight like a rose bud, and she looks around at the puddles and tufts of grass. "You'll really like this one," she says. She digs out a ring of keys and shuffles to a truck, stabbing at the door with a loose fist. With a rush of the motor, she rolls away, and the alley is quiet again.