Like the insides of an eye, there is black before there is white. The window is a square that a child finds easier to draw than the circle which is her face. It sits quietly on her neck. Something calmly disturbing about the way they are both looking at you, her right hand cushioning the chin and hers holding up a veil in agreement to the lack of shyness between the passer by and her friend. The play between the colors is harsh, unlike the softness of their clothes and faces. Their eyes are shadows to the secrets they lure you inside with. Now she smiles, now she giggles and between them, there is the ease of a secret growing old. That’s the only yellow in a window of black, brown and white.