She begins by the bins. Draped in blue silk, her back waves slowly like a tree rising from the ground. Beads and jewels hang off her waist. Navy eye shadow hides her downward gaze.
I sit against the wall, raising my hand against the morning glare. A tenant carries a laundry basket past us. A hundred people housed inside these yellow brick walls. My feet, like hers, feel the cold, broken concrete. While I was sink into it, she is unaware. It is water to her. Ripples from her toes between lap out to us.
Minutes of teasing subside as she turns around, allowing us to see both eyes. Playful yet distant. They stare at him as he films her. I’m unsure if it is he, the camera or herself, that she dances for.
Not an hour ago she was driving me to buy bread and baked beans. Her morning hair tied in a rough pony tail. A moment of solidarity in the super market aisle. A joke about fruits. It was the least I hoped from his girl, whom I knew less than I should about.
Arms stretch out like swans. Deep breaths into her belly. Release through her chest. A child points. Mother ushers her into the car.
Perhaps I have learned something of them, here by the bins, beyond what one could by candles and wine.