Seaside Moors magritte suit

He follows Erzulie’s wayward glance to a small grayscale girl, and he acknowledges her with a nod galvanized by his particular brand of camaraderie before turning his attention back to his tour guide. She points toward a forest that gloams just over the horizon, its splayed edges like torn paper, the fibers akimbo. 

It’s not the first time he is impressed by Rusalka’s charm. Its wallpaper has seen much, the lathe and plaster and vaulted woodwork underneath has seen more. World-weary, he thinks. Yellowed enamel. Casein flaking off at the edges. No one ever found asbestos-stuffed homes as romantic as he did. Laminated polypropylene furniture could move him to tears. 

Are there any other packs nearby? Allies, enemies, the like? Or was he in some liminal outer suburbia? Nothing but gas stations and squat condominiums for miles around, a half-conscious topology.