It was a nondescript street in a quiet barangay where people walked past to get to the jeepney terminal, some remained in place with smoke in hand, others cupping their third generation. It was morning and conversations were still murmured, the music but abuzzing. Like the girl on the roof, her pajamas still draped on her figure. She was perched on the roof, the scalloped galvanized iron sheets under her rubber slippers. With one hand, she held a phone speaking to the other line with intensity in her eyes; with the other, she kept turning a folded piece of paper with her fingers.
(writing practice inspired by unphotographable.com)