I stood turned to the wall—white, dirty, an inch away from my hot skin. If I had dared give my back to that wall, the street would have whirred on around me—as in a tunnel of mirrors: nothing clear, nothing clear.
I leaned down and hid my hot face, sighed fast into the painted stucco. Passers by passing by, flaring loud and shorting out the scanners. Heart pounding at a friendly smile around the butt of a cigarette, a questioning thumbs up, and maybe that was a joint. I walked fast back to the main road.