I try again to speak to her as she continues to heap combustibles in a corner with those oily rags that are so prone (to combustion, that is), but she apparently does not hear. Dust has accumulated underneath the window -- the one through which decaying tenements can be seen, if one were inclined to look. Our shoulders brush as she passes, and while she lets another choice assortment drop to the floor (it sounds like rolled paper and scraps of wood), I study the gray vista almost as if for the first time. The sun is going down (in the west), but even in the poor light, I notice that there is considerable dust suspended in the air as well. Finally, she gives in and looks at me. Her eyes are nearly as red as her hair, and she is wearing too much mascara -- even by her standards. The smell of solvents permeate the stagnant air, and it's quiet. So, unable to do anything else, I take her by the shoulders and pull her close, pressing my nose against her hair, and I feel her shudder -- just a little -- as she holds me even tighter. "I'm sad," she whispers hoarsely. The smell of her hair is so familiar, I can't help but to close my eyes and remember things best left forgotten. "Too late now." (Was she sobbing? I couldn't tell.) My lips brush her ear, and a floorboard creaks as she shifts her weight to one leg. "There's nothing left." (She was hoarse.) "No," I insist, "There is something." (And it was late.) "...just a little." But enough, I hope.