She watched it die.
At the top of her apartment complex, above families and lovers, perched a figure on the ledge of the rooftop. It stood above layers of humanity in that complex, liveliness indicated by the lights shining through the different curtains and blinds covering most of the windows of the complex. The figure stepped closer to the edge, its head turned to Teresa Sandoval. The silhouette reminded her of a woman: the harsh wind pulled back its hair and a sheet cascaded down the building.
The smell of red wine and smoke stung her eyes. Teresa stood underneath the one working streetlight on the entire street: all the other lights flickered. As the figure moved closer to the edge, the lights flickered even more. The buzzing grew louder. Teresa’s cheeks were red from the alcohol she had downed only fifteen minutes earlier and the cold wind slapping against her cheeks. She leaned against the pole, her burning eyes still fixed on the shadow as it halted right up to the ledge. She glanced quickly at the pavement in front of her then right up to the figure. The moon shone brightly behind the figure, long black hair illuminated. As it walked closer, the lights behind the windows at the feet of the figure were killed. She felt like she was at a shootout with an unknown enemy. She pretended the sweat slicking her neck was from the hot desert air, that her eyes were stinging from the sand flying to her face. Teresa scratched her wrist, a habit of hers when nerves consume