December sun warming bare skin. Pigeons roosting in holes in the wall, nibbling their feathers and bobbing their heads. The gentle, constant whirr of an extractor fan. A line of gossamer flying past, seeming to float on sunlight. Tiny flies and dust motes, glinting white and gold. A black cat creeping through the wisteria, six foot from the ground and out of reach of the overly-friendly AmStaff galumphing below. The putt-putt-putt of an ancient moped, slowing to a halt and idling outside the window. A rasping, cigarette-tinged yell from inside: “Ahò!” The moped turns and goes away again. A whirling cloud of gnats tornadoes through and disappears as quickly as they arrived. Sheets and towels waft gently, every so often pushing a scent of detergent and sunlight (fresh air? ozone?) into the room. A clattering of plates and a humming of voices. Knife slamming on chopping board. Hammer tapping on wall. Car horns tooting distantly.

The sun goes in.