You're on the third floor of an apartment building. The air presses thick on your face. The balcony has a thin metal fence around the edges, barely comfortable enough to lean against, but strong enough to support you. Baked by the sun and beaten down by snow are two folding chairs. A small ceramic ashtray sits on the floor next to one of them, terracotta-colored. Looking straight out to the west, you see dusty hills. Dry. Hot. The sun is high. Are you sweating a little bit? You're overlooking the parking lot below you. North from here is the mountain, but from the vantage that the building's edge permits, all you can see of it is the creeping wooded base. If you squat, then look down, (real close,) you can see the people-below-you's balcony in between the slats of thick gray wood. The sliding glass door goes back into the living room.