So, How Does It Look from the Stars
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The sweat stung his eyes as he wiped his forearm across his grimy brow, shifted his weight to the broom he'd been using to sweep in front of the little bodega, and looked up toward the 7th floor penthouse terrace. For a few moments that steamy summer night the city was quiet and he heard melodic laughter skitter across the rippled surface of some subdued piano jazz. It sounded like a real piano and he knew from delivering there once that they had a big white one shaped like an ocean wave. A handful of people drifted out to the edge of the terrace and he saw her once again. She leaned back against the terrace wall as she seemed to listen to someone he couldn't see, her pale hair drifting in the summer air as though in the languid waters of a rowing pond. In the apartment over the bodega, he could hear his kid sister suddenly rolling through the city's radio stations on her big old portable aimlessly, looking for somewhere she'd never been before.