Warped. He crouched by the car, changing the tire that had gone flat out of nowhere. She sat on the curb, the snow looking freshly stained with city-blackness. Bright and breezy, February, almost Valentines Day. The buildings reached high above his and her head, but not too high, like the skyscrapers blocks away. People passed by, with barely a glance or not even. The ground was always dirty here. The sidewalks grimy, the roads used, as a city should be. The feel of home on every ledge, in every pothole. There were free newsletters inside of a yellow containment, and they piqued her interest, only because there was nothing else to do so besides how her flat hair glinted red and gold in the sun. Writing Classes, they said. Writing. When had she last written anything? Not including stupid notes or educated essays that were not at all for her, not at all worth reading besides in a “classroom environment.” And she felt as dull as the graphite of her pencil when she wrote- dull, drab, dead. Maybe she could bring back some life. It was possible, wasn’t it? She could write something meaningful? It could be for herself. It could be for the world. It didn’t really matter, anyhow. Writing Classes. People passed and cars passed and birds warbled in between buildings, and she stuffed the flyer into her pocket and probably would write for a few days and then go back to her life. Nothing could sound better.