Unnamed girl. Weaving through the cars forced to a halt by the red light. Our driver rolls up the window when he sees her. She sprays Windex on the glass and holds up a cheap plastic squeegee. The driver waves her away. There is no money for you here. She turns toward another car. Sprays again. The sheet of white foam melts down our window—slowly, inevitably, despairingly—drying into a blurred, shapeless smudge. I steal guilty glimpses of her through the smear. Her silhouette looks like mine in the darkness. Red light turns green. Alone on the streets at night.