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Brea

The clouds aren’t like in cartoons, with spring and bounce; they’re just clouds, but there’s a surface underneath them, as hard as glass. Brea’s heels go click on it.

The clouds are low tonight, and up above them are the tops of buildings: square office blocks, blinking radio wireframes, the tip of a steeple. When she sweeps aside the mist to look down, though, the bottoms of those buildings aren’t where they should be. She thinks of aquariums. Refraction.

All the windows up here are dark, but the clock tower is lit from within. She walks toward it, click click click.

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