Now she faces north

Now she faces north once more. Sun, somewhere over my left shoulder racing across the southern sky. Now she glances upward. Her eyes are too narrow. Her hair is rather frayed. The louring day reflects upin this disease of apartment blocks that I pass slowly and I come to a full stop before it. Now the action of ultimate deceleration causes the hair resting on her left shoulder to slide limply to her chest. There I am halted before a darkened disease. The dying luminance against the stucco returns to me carrying a bouquet of jaundice, a floral, yet plastic and pock-marked hue that in other nights might calculate out to warmth. The nights of others. This pallour is of the idleness practiced by a stucco that takes what it is given by the elements. When it rains, gutterless eaves shrug warm water over the walls. In blazing day the southern sun torments the shell as it lays immobile, possibly twitching in vain to shake away small flakes of its own decaying skin. Yet, in its suffering she cannot move or take action, quiescent even in the approach of continual debasement. More often than this cowing, the skies are fair and the breezes dance charitably from the sea to lay their golden kiss upon that recumbant facade. Still it remains inert with its silhouette idly welcoming the dusk with a treasonous false zeal seeming to insist a preference for the shadows, while limply continuing to receive helpings of reward from the sun as it dives. The car rocks forward and she leans back on her left shoulder. Her face and neck are envious and icteric.