It was cold. Freezing, really. There at the stoop, on the street, glowing in red. Dark, straight hair raking her face. She shivered, stood and walked down the street. To me, this place is foreign. To her, she knows the environment like the stories her mother told her. She walks down the road away from the doorway. Where they threw her out. Spit on her. But now she walks down the road trying to keep warm. She coughs. The shivers shake her again. The cold day drops her onto the street, rejecting her and the brightness of her clothes. The ground glistens and reflects her ghost. City lights above her seem to reflect the shine of her gown. She is everywhere, in the pavement, in the street lights, in the ads flashing and sparking. But really she does not want to be everywhere. She wants to be inside. Where they threw her out. Spit on her. Where she had waited outside on the doorway, on the stoop. hoping they would let her back int.