She resides at the center of the city, the most effective way she could pore over each busy corner and return home at dawn. Her home is a primordial-looking studio unit at the foot of an apartment building, half-entombed, swathed of spray-paint, the smell of garbage piled at the corner. She turned her keys on two adjacent locks, groped for a light switch beside the door frame, and stepped aside.

Three-foot canvases filled the corner of the room, along with a desk crammed with open boxes of acrylic and brushes. Her paintings were surreal, a brew of renaissance and whim, in tinted monochrome and red, a version of her I haven’t seen.

Further there was a round metal table for two with a pair of bistro chairs, a decent, rundown yet well-equipped kitchen and a five-foot refrigerator. Between the dining area and her office space she managed to fit in a long tattered couch and a small center table. She sat there, flipped open a laptop and browsed through. I walked around, turned the knob at the left side adjacent to the kitchen and swung the door open.

Her bedroom was the only room equipped with an air-conditioning unit. There was a fairly wide bed for two pressed to the far corner. She had placed her tall closet against the single wide window on the left, resourceful for someone who dreads sunlight.

“Wondering if I’m sleeping in a coffin?” she asked, her eyes on the screen.

I shrugged. “I’m reluctant to find out but, yeah, I was,” I said, gently closing the door.

I sat beside her, looked down at the Etsy site displayed on her screen. Veronica Romero, it read.

“Where the hell did you get that name?” I asked.

She leaned back and folded her arms. “A prostitute,” she replied, “she was perfect, almost my age. She had the guts to travel by ship and look for a job. A runaway, no family, nothing, only papers, an ID. It was easy to assume her identity. She’s pregnant. She wouldn’t survive anyway.”

“How do you ship them?” I asked.

“A little help,” she replied, “he calls himself Madcap Mic. He’s an online seller as well. All I need to do is hand him the items, the shipping fee and a quarter of what I’ve earned, then he does what he’s told.”

I cringed, glared at her like an envious child. “Does he know?” I asked.

“All he knows is I’m a junkie and I’ve got some chronic skin disease that makes me hate sunlight. Apart from that he only sees an artist trying to get by with commissioned work.”

I smiled. I’m sinking in. I couldn’t fully grasp how or why, or if she placed classified boundaries that she would push me into and have me step on like land mines but I’ve infiltrated her personal space. I’ve craved this, to inch myself out of reality. An anticipated aberration in the tedious consistency. A permanent high.

“Mind if I stay here?” I asked, “I could get some food, beers, stuff to get me through the day. I just don’t feel like going home.”

“Wouldn’t your mother be looking for you?” she asked.

“Not really,” I replied, “as long as I’m out, having some fresh air, dealing with people. As long as she doesn’t deal with my shit for staying in the house for too long, she’s fine with it.”

She looked around. Heavy curtains flocked the windows. Still sunlight desperately tried to seep in.

“It’s dawn,” she said, “I need to sleep. Just make sure to lock the doors if you will.” She slipped a pair of keys off a ring and dropped them on the table. She then stood, slipped off her shoes and jacket, and stretched her arms.

“Sin,” I called.

She looked at me. Eyebrows cringed and impatient.

I insouciantly returned her gaze. “Sweet dreams.” I said.

She slipped into her bedroom and closed the door. It was followed by a sharp click.

I stood up, shook the knob and sighed. It was locked.