Outlined against a darkening salmon sky, she sits on the roof of the house. She is oddly unconcerned with the goings-on of the world below, one which happens to be part of the indistinguishable congealment that is east coast suburbia. She is bent over something in her lap, a notebook perhaps, but it is difficult to tell, as she sits in sharp relief against the fading of daylight. She never once looked down, but she's acutely aware of my presence.

I sit here every day, on the curb across the street, looking up at her with mingled fascination and apprehension. So regal, she is at a constant climax, just as I am at the bottom, the bedrock of her existence. We coexist in a parallel, subconsciously afraid to cancel each other out—a disastrous calamity—and thusly maintain separate identities.

She is the thrilling embodiment of everything I am not: free spirit, subtle acumen, and a chiseled love for beauty in all forms. Some days I find her examining the sky so intently that I feel she might get up and dive into the vast blueness of it, leaving me behind in order to achieve some celestial understanding, unattainable so long as I hold her back with my insecurities, doubts, and concrete perception.

But I realize this will never happen, and I believe she does too. She does not see me among the herd of the mundane, but rather as her antithesis and, consequently, her counterpart. We function together, despite the expanse between us, equalizing the manifestation of our physical form.

Even as the evening atmosphere passes over us, I can still see her, a rough profile shifting against the dotted indigo. She's sure of her place in this world, as I am now.