A dusty and rain-stained window barricades me from outside clatter. Facing a side street, lighter traffic and a large loading docks create dark, cemented, oil-stained caves. I could see water from an exposed pipe drip down the side of the first cave where two men are alone and talking. Gesturing with their cigarettes, their motions were getting wider with each movement. The man farthest from me is shifting back and forth on his feet in agitation.
The next dock over houses an unmoving mound covered by a pink thermal blanket. A tied white grocery bag sits atop it.
The third dock is the brightly lit by an overhead lamp. A circle of men are standing by several women are sitting on the dock. They are all laughing and flirting with each other.
For the briefest of moments, the bone china image in my window is still and pristine.
In the first bank, a man throws a punch, and the image shatters. The men from the third bank tangle together in their effort to reach the fight, and they all bowl over the man who threw the first punch. The women trail behind, and as one of them passed the second dock, she lifts a corner of the pink blanket, and a brown hand extends from beneath it, smacking the intruder.