The puddle looks like coffee the way her father drank it: murky with streaks along the surface.
But surprisingly it is cold and has no flavour as they push her face into it, holding her ponytail and giggling as schoolgirls often do.
Bubbles froth out. Her nose presses against gravel and dirt. Grit on teeth. Crunch on cheek. The cool
water soothes the sting on her lips where the chain link fence had pressed. She stops struggling
when she feels the tug and hears the rip.
She sits alone in the puddle in the alley and watches wisps of her own hair float away
in the wind
chasing after the
laughter and footsteps.
Tears slip off her face, distort her reflection as they plink into the puddle that no longer reminds her of her father.