Crimson lights bounce off taped-up glasses balanced precariously on his nose. The blinking hand tells him he is almost on the other side of the sprawling gap, loose papers taped to the black sea waving hello (or was it farewell?).

But no matter. There is no traffic at this time of night anyway nor in this particular area. Late night suburbia.

It lends itself well to the summer breeze, passing comforts that play with hair.

He pushes his frames up, twin reflections staring back through dirty lenses.

But the last image etched into the glass is the only picture worth framing.

A picture worth smiling for, as smiles beget smiles.

And hers is extraordinary.