Prudence walks through the grove of flowering trees. Around her are friends and lovers, some lying in the grass, holding hands, engrossed in conversation. Around her, all the world moves. Without her, people go on with their lives, swimming through the world.

Prudence climbs the stairs. Her white skirt brushes the grubby floor and she stares at her disappearing and reappearing flip-flops. She separates one key from among the many dangling from the lanyard around her neck. Struggling with the lock, she is eventually granted access. She kicks off her flip-flops and sits on her bed. The room is tiny, but spotless. She moves from the bed to lay on her rug and she dreams of things that might've been. She dreams of things that could've been. She dreams of things that will never be.

Her eyes are misty and begin to glass over. Soon, they well over. The puddles drip from her eyes to kiss her cheeks and wet the rug.

Then, Prudence stops dreaming of things that might be.