End of Summer.

It's abnormally quiet outside, on the streets of my neighborhood, at this time of day. The weather is at its finest and I'm sitting with my chin resting on the back of the couch, staring out of the window smudged with grime. My eyes are locked on a rose bush across the street in an estranged neighbor's yard. It towers high above the nearby shrubs, screaming with its' ragged appearance, the need for a trim, or for any sort of attention whatsoever. A fly slowly makes its way across the dirty glass just inches away from my eyes. The fly's movements resemble a mechanic of some sorts, like the inner workings of a clock; little spasms or twitches of movement that slowly but surely bring it across my plain of view. Yet, the fly is not the focus. My eyes are still trained on the rose bush. A black dot only slinks across and disappears.

What am I looking at?

Nothing.

A rose bush.

I finally blink, after who knows how long, when a little girl frolics through my sight. Her hair is a mess as she looks around, pulls down her dirty shorts, and squats right next to the rose bush that I have been molesting with my gaze. Like some barbarian, she looks around as if scouting for authority of some sorts, and to her success she is alone. A stream of piss escapes between her twig of legs, her bare bottom just inches from the dirt, she finishes and jumps to her feet while pulling her shorts up. She hops a few steps and runs off to the other side of the house, yelling, as if continuing the game she never left. The piss that never happened. The rose bush gazes longingly after the girl, and then down at the steaming pile of piss in the dirt.. Its first act of affection all week.