She sat in the street, listening to the roaring that filled the alleyway. Looking at her face, flat and empty, was like opening your eyes at night. You try to find something, anything, to see, but all that comes back is that empty void of blackness.
She used to smile. She used to wear her red dress, pinching her cheeks until they burned with rose-petal pain, and go dancing in the hall. She used to be pretty, too, long brown hair swishing down her back as she twisted in someone's arms.
Now it just hung there, dead, greying. Just like her, sitting on the side of the road. When people passed the woman sitting by the truck, they clicked the volume buttons on their iPods, adjusted their sunglasses, pretending not to see. The buzz of the truck with its ignition on, idling by the loading dock, made the people on the street shiver. But the woman, not her. If she could smile, she would. Whenever she heard that sound, she felt that she had become what everyone told her she would.