Morning: An alarm clock’s buzz, a hand reaching out of the covers for the snooze button, feet on the floor, hands raking hair, a shuffle to the bathroom down the hall.
Ana’s apartment window looks back over an expanse of gray, three stories down, an empty lot bounded on two sides by a chain-link fence overgrown with weeds and vines, on the other side by an alley. Passing the window on the way back to bed, she notices there are no cars parked there. And carved and smoothed into the gravel is her face, 30-40 feet long, just as wide, just as accurate as a drawing, an unsigned bas relief, stone and dirt.
It must have been him, right? And he must have been standing up here on the porch to do it. And assuming he did this by himself - he couldn’t have had help, who else would do this with him? - he must have made a hundred trips up and downstairs. While she was at class? Or work? While she was asleep? Maybe it’s right this time. Maybe it’s really wrong.
Enbal approaches Ana at the window, "Whatcha look–"
(pause)
"Whoa..."
Ana’s face, the real one, is flushed, as a cool morning breeze gently raises a small cloud of dust from her cheeks below. She closes her mouth in an uncertain smile.
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