I stood on the balcony overlooking the city. The lights of the buildings were buzzing with people, even in this late hour. All around me, some of the lights went out, leaving a black, empty hole where a once beautiful yellow light glowed. But still, some of the lights were left on, and a shadow passed in front of the sunshield every few moments. I guess there could be some righteous metaphor here, but I just think it looks pretty.

"Mimzy, come inside or you'll catch a cold." My mother, her makeup smeared where the remover missed it, stood half in, half out of our studio flat. Mom was beautiful, with auburn hair like mine and deep green eyes. We shared height and build, and could be twins if it weren't for the crow's feet reaching out at the corners of her eyes.

"Mim, are you alright?" Mom wrapped her shawl around me as she stepped outside. I had no clue how cold I was until I clutched the fabric against my arms.

I did the best I could to smile, and nodded. "Yea. Just daydreaming. Has everyone gone home?"

Earlier, Mom was hosting an in-home art show, where she set up her ballerinas and elephants, flowers and intricate Persian maidens, and took whatever money someone offered her for one of them. A few people had stayed late to smoke expensive cigars and talk to Mom about "her muse," and I walked outside to get some fresh air. I had no clue how late it was, but the sky was turning gray.

Mom led me inside, quickly closing the French sliding doors behind her and draping the curtains over them. She was weird about the whole "Peeping Tom" thing. I sat down on the dull red couch we've had since I was a kid, sinking comfortably back into its cushions. We had no TV ("It drains the imagination," Mom says) so my eyes wandered around the room. Most of the familiar paintings were gone, but luckily she didn't sell any of my favorites; The Contortionist, who was viewed bent and twisted from inside a glass box; Pie Man, an older piece with an older black man in barber stripes selling baked sweets to a white man (Mom did it to voice equality on the matter). There were a few easels with nearly finished portraits and animals, and one near the bookshelf that I used. Right now, it was just a blank canvas.

"Here ya go, before I send you off to bed," Mom handed me a mug of hot chocolate. I let the warmth envelop my numb fingers before taking slow, cautious sips. With a creak of the couch, Mom sat down beside me and retrieved The Picture of Dorian Grey from the coffee table, opening it to her marked page.

That's another thing. My mom loved books. Sometimes she would even trade her paintings for a book she had been searching for, or even if she thought that it would be a good read. Along the length of our living room/study were oak bookshelves screwed into the brick walls. Numerous spines looked out at us, books filled with modern romance or swarthy buccaneers, anything between the 1800s and now. Mom had it all, and passed the love of art and the written word down to me.

I watched her as she scanned the pages. Her eyes lit up; I noted to myself that I would have to read it after her. I wondered if my face lit up like that when the plot twisted or the villain turned out to be kinder than I first thought.

"You're hot cocoa's getting cold," she marked her page and set the book back down on the coffee table. Leaning, she kissed my cheek. "G'night, baby,"

I set the mug down on a coaster and kissed her back. "'Night, mom."

My room was freezing when I opened the door. The window above my bed was wide open, the curtains dancing like spider webs in the breeze. The latch was fine, so I couldn't figure how it opened on its own. I sat on my knees and reached out into the cold, searching for the frame of the window. My hand touched something soft and I jumped, jerking my hand back inside. Ugh, I hated touching things I couldn't see. I waited a minute before quickly grabbing the window and latching it shut. I sunk into my pillow, not daring to look into the dark for fear of seeing a face that wasn't mine. Not caring enough to change into my pajamas, I burrowed beneath the covers before falling asleep.