Lyn blocks out the men chanting, the women screaming, the ginger drag act. Her boy’s top front tooth is chipped. Holes for two studs in his ear. At first his voice shocked her, hard, very Wakey, twinkly eyes, she bets he wore diamond studs, twinkly jokey. But honest somehow. Lyn shrugs off the tickle of his breath in her ear. Are any honest? She’s tired. Crap. Why are you are always tired when tomorrow’s your day off. Shit, today now. The noise is beginning to do her head in, she likes his breath in her ear, leans forward like she’s really interested in what he’s saying. It was beers and bands and then Ibiza, cow fangen or something, Thailand, now he’s on about an air hostess and his Mum but she’s not listening just looking, he’s funny and he knows. His hands and nails are so clean his work must be dirty. In this light his hair’s yellow. She should have said yes when he asked her to dance, his hands would have been on her hips, down her back, if he doesn’t ask when the music’s back on she will kiss him. Just to shut him up. Tongues. Right off. Shock him.

But he stops anyway, asks, ‘You angry?’

‘Famished.’ What’s he offering?

‘I said angry!’

‘Angry? No way.’

‘You look angry, something I said?’

‘I told you, I’m not angry, look.’ She pulls a wide smile but feels fake, a stretched eek, droopy mouth sides.

‘I prefer you angry.’

‘I wasn’t angry!’ She knows as she says it he must be able to see something. She has been angry for months.

He comes back, she can feel the cold on him.

‘You been outside?’

‘No, yeh, needed some air like.’ He sniffs his fingers.

‘You been for a smoke.’

‘No, I don’t, well I do, weed. Not now, I just needed a quick breath of air, but I have some, if you like.’

‘Maybe.’ Dope would do but she needs something stronger. Something to kick against. She thinks, but she doesn’t know. She’s never taken anything like that, she wants something. She’s sick of drink, this sweet bright drink, she’s sick of the music. He is talking again, she’s no idea what about, stop talking man, for Pete’s sake!

‘What’s so funny?’

‘I just thought of something.’

‘I was just saying …’

‘Pete right.’

‘It’s fucked Wakey nightlife, people used to come in coaches’

‘Pete, you see?’

‘from Middlesborough and that’

‘Pete.’

‘they used’

‘Pete.’

‘to close off Westgate’

‘Pete!’

‘I remember when … sorry, what?’

He has not been smoking. He tastes malty, his stubble prickles.

He still tasted of beer in the cobbled Latin Quarter alley. Then against the red brick wall of Switalskis he tasted of pies. Outside the door to the flats downstairs, while she was still deciding, he tasted of dope.

Now he tastes of her toothpaste.

Her teeth are singing. Each time he stops and looks at her she can’t stop smiling. His skin is hard. His chest hairless. Lyn liked the taste of dope.

‘Roll another.’

He props himself up. ‘Y’sure?’

‘Yeh.’

‘Where are you going?’

‘None of your business.’ But she doesn’t close the bathroom door so she can look at herself without turning on the harsh light and can peek back at him sitting shirtless on her bed, his blonde mop of hair, the muscles all down his arms and into his clean fingers rolling the joint. He looks up, smiles. Lyn is happy he is here.

Pete holds up a head of grass, grins. ‘You’ve cleaned me out. My last bud.’ He folds the little plastic bag into the watchpocket of his jeans.

Lyn slips her hand down the back of her dress to scratch a tickle.

He holds the spliff out to her, looking worried. ‘No, leave it on. For a bit.’

‘I wasn’t taking it off.’ Her teeth singing. ‘Yet.’

He is asleep again. Lyn’s eyes are drooping but her mouth is dry from smoke, sex, bright sweet alcohol so she gets herself a glass of water, picks her red dress off the bedroom chair and sits legs curled under her to watch over him. He can sleep as long as he likes. She will tie him to the bed, with ropes, with a rose all branches and thorns, her sleeping beaut-  … her Gulliver, but just the right size, under her duvet, out of her duvet, his foot, his knee, his arm, his chest, his mess of hair over his face buried between her pillow and the spare pillow, her usually empty pillow, the edge of his breath not quite a snore.

Thinking snore makes her smile. This boy in her room, her sitting on the little IKEA armchair she still needs to cover, Lyn imagines his face, his chipped tooth, stubble, one sideburn lower than the other, tapered, tired ..

Lyn and her sister Cathy walk by a river in a city, London, a fleet of those ugly yellow bus duck things float past and they are full of the royal family but she doesn’t recognise them, England has a king now, from Norway. Cathy and Lyn are going up in the air, on a high carousel, very high over the river and Cathy is not Cathy, Cathy is him, the bastard, but not beside her, Lyn’s unsure whether she is going round after him in front or he is coming round behind her and the tower is not the swing tower over the river, the city, London, but they’re going high up round Emley Mast, all fields below Wakey one way Huddersfield the other and snowy mountains to the north, she’s dizzy and he, the bastard, he’s shouting at her but what she can hear sounds like “Semolina! Semolina! Semolina!!” The chains jolt and Lyn slips

.. water all down her fluffy dressing gown and legs.

Pete is asleep in her bed. For a moment or two it is hard to breath. She doesn’t want him to wake up. She wants him to wake up. She doesn’t want him to go. 

She says his name, not really trying to wake him, sitting in her chair, practicing. ‘Pete. Pete. Peter. Pete. Peter.’

He tastes of-

‘Fuck!’

‘What?’

‘Work. I have to go, fuck, shit.’

‘Chuck a sickie.’

‘You are joking. Where m’f-‘

‘Under the-‘

‘Cheers, look, what um … laters.’

‘Smday off.’

‘Yeh?’

‘Yeh.’

‘Sound. I mean..’

‘What?’

‘you might want to bring …’

‘Yes?’

‘back another bloke-‘

‘That was a joke.’

‘Thoughtitwas, sorry.’

‘S’alright.’

‘I meant that I thought you … I mean like that I knew it was.’

‘I know.’

Well. Good. I’m … that’s …’

‘You’re… um …’

‘Shirt.’

‘Behind you. I’m here all, you know. Today.’

‘Yeh … well after … I finish, usually at-‘

‘Where’re you working?’

‘Handy actually … over there. At the moment.’

‘The station.’

‘Nah. Here we go round the mulberry bush … clue?’

‘mm’

‘mm I like you. Look sorry, Igotto’

‘Yranelectrician.’

‘M.’

‘You in the book?”

‘Got a pen?’

‘Pen.’

‘Pen.’

‘Pen. Pen. Pen. Somewhere. Here.’

‘Cheers.’ He pulls cards from his back pocket, scrawls a number. ‘It works. Thereyougo. I can’t ring, not in there. I’ll go home after, clean up … text you, about’

‘Just come.’

‘Six. Here?’

They nod. Laugh. Kiss. Then Pete has gone and Lyn is thinking he never asked what she did and how she is OK with that because it spares her all the usual jokes.

A guy came in the other day asking if there was a picture of the mulberry bush. The same day that woman was looking for recipes with mulberries and oranges and they found one for a dressing, loads for cheesecake. There is a cheesecake in the fridge. Home made. Not mulberries and orange. Key lime.

She breathes in, closes her eyes. Almost metal, not quite glass.

Opens her eyes, looks at her phone again. Four texts.

Hers, So Ive yr number. ThankU!!!xxx Too much?

His, U2! x and Laters. Not enough? An exclamation mark.

In bed his diamond smell, her soreness. Burn.

In the bathroom a new taste to her toothbrush, smoke in her mouth.

Her other text, Laters!xxxYes!! Not enough.Too much.

Nothing more from him. He said he wouldn’t be able to text from in there.

Maybe he rang while she was asleep.

No missed calls.

Her feet cold on the floorboards.

Lyn closes her eyes, almost metal, not quite glass, his smell like if diamonds were wet, runny diamonds, cutting, drilling, diamond dust. Not quite dust. Stubble. A river shimmering in the distance, a river of liquid stones.

He said he wouldn’t be able to ring from in there.

Is it too cold to go out on the balcony, even if she did she wouldn’t be able to see the jail.

The balcony is cold, good cold. Deep-breath it-won’t-be-cold-for-long cold. Morning-of-a-good-day cold. Cold that makes Lyn feel elsewhere. Abroad. Rasping scooters, lazy sirens. About to explore a new place.

She can’t see the prison.

Nothing moving in Burgage Square.

Between the offices, the old library.

She loved working in Drury Lane because the library had its back to the south west turned away from everything that reminded her of … everything. At first, after she came across the Pennines, whenever she returned to Wakey she looked for Emley Mast, from the train, driving the M1, the M62: the first sign of home, visible from all horizons, day or night, grey silhouette or red lights, one light two lights, one light two. A rocket that had decided to stay. A friend.

Then a thorn, a reminder, always there. She tried not to look. A thorn in her eye.

The new library is all south west facing glass. People keep saying, You must love that view, now you’ve got one.

Yes, she says, How can I help you?

Lyn has glugged orange all morning. She opens another carton. Her stomach’s full but her dry lips crave more juice, her mouth bits, her throat craves gulping. She slides open her wardrobe, looks at her work clothes, going out clothes, nothing in between, she decides she will cook for Pete, they will eat here. A man will eat in her new flat, not a friend, not one of the guys from work, a man she fucks. Pete.

Pete inside the prison just over there, wiring. Maybe he will see the mulberry tree. She opens her laptop, googles ‘mulberry recipes’ then inserts orange, ‘mulberry orange recipes’ clicks search.

Gluten free mulberry, orange and almond tarts; Orange Mulberry Vinaigrette; Mulberry-Orange Muffins; Gingered Mulberry-Orange Crumble with Pecan Crunch – that sounds more like it. Mulberry Orange Cheesecake in Chocolate Crust.

Where to get mulberries? Lyn googles, ‘mulberries wakefield’

The Mulberry Bar and Club, HMP Prison Wakefield, Wakefield Grammar School Foundation, Second hand Mulbery handbags, Mulberry Place Wakefield, Property Values in Mulberry House.

She clicks next and gets more of the same. Clicks previous, looks at her flat in Zoopla, the empty flat next door in Rightmoves.

Lyn tweets, ‘Anyone know where I can buy mulberries in Wakey? @wakelibs @woodstreetmarket @uniquewakefield’

She clicks History, opens up the Rightmove page, slideshows through the the rooms full of show flat furniture, rereads, ‘This brand new, contemporary, residential development brings a breath of fresh air to Wakefield’s Historic Civic Quarter. Merchant Gate isn’t just ‘another’ apartment block …luxury white gloss kitchens, contemporary bathrooms, spacious open plan living areas, floor to ceiling windows, balcony views over landscaped courtyard area … sleek chrome fixtures fittings … spacious double bedrooms … high quality oak … veneer … oak laminate … oak hard wood … soft close technology … quartz … brushed stainless … splash backs … integrated … single … electric … hood .. under mounted .. pelmet … sink … underneath … 

The price is chasing the market. She wonders who the woman is. The developer’s girlfriend? The builder’s daughter in law? A model who specialised in photos of women in new flats waiting for someone?

Lyn wishes she had asked Pete to roll her the last bud, wonders if he will bring more tonight.

‘Large walk in shower … corian shelf with large mirror. Shaver Point. Full tiling.’

Responses to her tweet come in.

From @wood_street_market, I don’t know because I have a bush in the garden!

From @uniquewakefield, Can you still even buy mulberries? There is a wakey link though

From @miriamm, berries have been and gone but I will see if I have any left on my tree

From @drsrforster, Attached image of mulberry bush. My tree still has about 20 still ripening fruits

From @alanblumb56 @WFlibraries birds love them so rarely enough left to cook been quick this year have some in freezer DM if you want some

She thumbs to his profile, enlarges his black and white picture, he could be Alan Bennett looking awkwardly off to one side. Lyn DMs Yes please and a few seconds later he replies with his number.

Lyn walks to the bottom of Burgage Square and rings Pete.

‘Hi … it’s me, I know you can’t answer, I just wanted to say … say … ‘

She realises she should have thought.

‘Thanks’

Lame! Lame! Lame!

‘I mean I … ‘

She can’t talk about what they did, can’t say on the phone that she can still feel him, telling him she has come out to get mulberries would be just too weird.

‘I am going to make you …’

She wonders how sweet the mulberries will be, thick, cloying, sharp? Like juice, wine? Here we go round …

‘I’m looking over wondering where you are.’

She says as his ansaphone beeps

‘Can’t wait to see you.’

Wonders if her voice has been relayed through the Emley Mast.

‘Fuck off, fall down.’

Alan Lumb opens his door and lets Lyn into the hallway of his ground floor flat. She has never met anyone who smells so strongly of tea – somewhere between Earl Grey and chamomile. He is younger than his twitter photo and doesn’t really look like Alan Bennett, though he sounds like she remembers Alan Bennett reading on the radio.

‘You work in the library.’

He smells of tea or rope, the hall of dust and old books.

‘Yes, I do.’

‘What do you think of it now?’

She should be loyal and shouldn’t slag the new building off just because she now gets a constant view of her thorn mast.

He doesn’t give her time to reply. ‘A vast improvement. The museum too, I take it you have seen the cayman and his friend the monkey’s arse? Any public institution that displays a tax man made from a monkey’s arse deserves to be supported.’

‘I think it was customs wasn’t it?’

He taps a tupperware container he has picked up from the hall table, ‘Your mulberries, you can drop this off when you’ve done. What are you making, vinaigrette? They make a good vinaigrette if you’ve only a few, I do a cordial now, my wife used to make a gin. Pyramus and Thisbe.’

‘Sorry?’

‘Everyone goes on about the mulberry tree in the prison but they forget about Pyramus and Thisbe, Wakefield couple.’ He smiles, ‘From way back, hole in the wall. You know the story?’

Lyn nods.

He’s not fooled, ‘Look it up. Goooogle it.’

Lyn wants to ask, How old do you think you are? Not much older than me, and if you chose proper clothes, stopped all the old gaffer stuff and didn’t sound like Alan Bennett you’d be quite good looking.

She hangs a minute, feeling the slight weight of the mulberries slipping softly across the container, but he doesn’t offer her tea.

Sugar light brown

Flour pl

Cinnamon

Pecans

O Juice

Ginger

—————-

Beer wine

Fish/dill/pots/veg?

Apples etc

Radox

Toothbrush

Cleanser/cw

Air fresh

Bics BISCS

Looroll

Batteries

Ramkins

The last person Lyn wants to run into is the key lime lady from Mulberry House.

No. The last person Lyn wants to run into is Jan.

Jan wants to know what happened last night. How she gave them the slip. Jan wants to know which bloke it was. Him! Jan wants to know e-ver-ry-thing that happened. Jan wants her to come to Moca Mocha, Jan wants her to come to Trinity, Jan wants her to come out later, Jan wants her to see these divine little cakes in Wood Street Market with book covers on. Jan wants the others to know. Jan sees the bags, Jan sees the shopping.

Jan says, ‘Bloody hell.’

Jan says, ‘I’ll leave you to it love’ and puts her tongue in her cheek. ‘Bye for now.’

The key lime pie lady is sitting on a bench talking to a black guy.

Lyn walks up the Wood Street looking at the stalls and ducks into a pop up shop when she sees Jan coming back down, half a cake in one hand, the other half crumbling on her lipstick.

Lyn pretends to be absorbed in the … art?  Yes, art, and realises she likes just words on glass, on wood, on card, in the floor dust:

WELCOME

UNEXPLAINED THINGS

PROMISE ME YOU WON’T

NURTURING THE PEOPLE NURTURING THE CITY

She likes the maps made into trousers – she wants Pete now, out of his.

She likes the little shoal of gel fish and hearts on the window.

She doesn’t like the clown outside talking to a small angel. Whenever she sees a face painted white, she wants to slap it.

Lyn is glad to see that God is in Create Cafe.

The mornings she sees him on her way to the library upstairs, she knows she will have a good day. The mornings he is not, she knows will be full of irritating enquiries from bad tempered people, or unissued items not where they are supposed to be.

Or the sun will pick out Emley Mast and rub it in her eye.

Lyn realises that, although setting up and packing away his computer must take God some time, she has never seen him arrive, never seen him leave.

If he is there when she goes home, she knows she will have a good evening. After all, he was there yesterday and look what happened. She tilts the tupperware and feels the mulberries slide, waves at God, but he does not look up, he never does.

She is glad God uses a mac to care for the world, and not a PC.

Preheat oven to 350°.

Lyn rings Pete. Pecan Streusel Topping.

She says streusal, stroosal, imagines what she will say if he answers while she is saying strooooowsarl.

She doesn’t leave a message.

She mixes four tablespoons of butter with the granulated and light brown sugars then tries to mimic medium machine speed with her hand whisk. The Foxes Love Lemons dot com recipe says five minutes, it is going to take longer so she stops for a rest, wipes butter off her phone screen, mixes flour, cinnamon and salt in another bowl. Eats a couple of pecans, opens the white wine.

Hot from the shower, Lyn sits in her bra and pants, with a towel round her hair and, saying it like Alan Lumb/Bennett out loud, ‘Gooooogles Pyyyyr-imooos an’ Thiiiiiis-b.’

Wikipedia: “In the Ovidian version, Pyramus and Thisbe is the story of two lovers in the city of Babylon who occupy connected houses/walls, forbidden by their parents to be wed, because of their parents’ rivalry. Through a crack in one of the walls, they whisper their love for each other. They arrange to meet near Ninus’ tomb under a mulberry tree and state their feelings for each other. Thisbe arrives first, but upon seeing a lioness with a mouth bloody from a recent kill, she flees, leaving behind her veils. When Pyramus arrives he is horrified at the sight of Thisbe’s veil, assuming that a fierce beast had killed her. Pyramus kills himself, falling on his sword in proper Roman fashion, and in turn splashing blood on the white mulberry leaves. Pyramus’ blood stains the white mulberry fruits, turning them dark. Thisbe returns, eager to tell Pyramus what had happened to her, but she finds Pyramus’ dead body under the shade of the mulberry tree. Thisbe, after a brief period of mourning, stabs herself with the same sword. In the end, the gods listen to Thisbe’s lament, and forever change the colour of the mulberry fruits into the stained colour to honour the forbidden love.”

Mm. Bloody tragedy. No oranges. Blood orange. She takes a glass of wine into the bathroom, nips back for her phone, thinks about texting, doesn’t want to seem too eager.

In front of the mirror, she pulls the towel across her mouth and nose and tilts her head thinking, Veils!  Ha!

Soon now. She must stop looking out of the window. She leaves it open.

Gets the streusel topping out of the freezer. Now the mulberry mixture: three and a half cups of … mulberries. They look a bit limp. Seven tablespoons of lovely sugar, she licks her fingertips. Three tablespoons of flour, she rinses her fingertips. One teaspoon of fresh grated, well OK finely finely finely chopped and a bit crushed ginger, five teaspoons of easier than ginger orange zest and fresh orange j-

Shit. She drank all the juice this morning. Checks: needs two and a half tablespoons. She looks in the fridge, milk, beer. Wine? Thinks shops, Wood Street, no, Westgate, the Polish shop, the station, cartons, looks at the time. Checks for texts, missed calls. He could bring some. Rings.

Doesn’t leave a message.

Rings again, ‘Hi, it’s me. Look, I’m looking … look … hope you had a good … day. If you’re coming past the station or that shop could you – ’

It sounds ridiculous. Like they are living together, like she’s his … wi…par … girlf …

Lyn takes a slurp of wine, walks over to the window.

The beep of his answer phone cutting off.

The top of her key lime pie neighbour’s grey head bobbing around over her window sills a floor up, busy at something.

Lyn spreads her hand on the thick tablecloth. She thinks of pearls. If she picks up a knife, a fork, a glass they will be heavy. Lyn sits down and presses her fingers flat into the white, like a fresh sheet, hears the woman ask, ‘Are you alright?’ Maybe she has drunk a little too much wine already or this is something more serious, a heart attack, an aneurism, an assault by her memory.

The room shifts, the colours go, she blocks out a voice she wants so much to hear. The woman is next to her with a glass of water, ‘Drink this, Lyn isn’t it? Clara.’

Lyn thinks Clara is going to offer to shake hands, but instead she pulls a chair round the end of the table and sits holding out the water. ‘Here. Have a sip.’

‘No thanks.’ Lyn squeezes her brain. This is too much.

‘There’s no rush.’

The old woman wraps her pearls in her fingers and presses them to her throat.

Lyn checks her phone, checks Burgage Square. It is warm in here, smells of wood, or spice. Over on the worktops there are bags of crisps and nuts, empty bowls.  As soon as she gets her head back together she will take the orange juice and go.

‘Actually,’ Lyn points to the carton. ‘Could I?’

‘Of course, let me get you another glass.’

The woman is not as old as she thought, she moves easily. Yoga, dance, something like that.

‘Here.’

Lyn feels the juice bits on her tongue. ‘Do you have a strainer? I guess for the recipe, I’m making Pecan and Mulberry….

The woman laughs, ‘Yes, I have a strainer.’

‘He’s called Pete. He’s working in the prison. Not a guard, an electrician. Said he would be here about six. Men eh?’

‘Men. And electricians.’

‘Yeh. It’s lovely.’

‘I am sure he is.’

‘No. It is.’ Lyn sweeps her hand over the linen. ‘To see a table cloth.’

‘This is the first time I have had it out. Here. I’m surprised the colour’s kept, this was my mother’s.’

Lyn closes her eyes, but the tears come.

Lyn stares into and out through the glass half full a quarter of a bottle a glass she could force over her sweaty head if she wasn’t reading the recipe through its side a little wobbly from the half glass quarter of a bottle she just glugged unsteady reading the recipe like a story something that isn’t going to happen especially ‘cos she reads in a nursery rhyme voice loud filling her lungs,

‘Preheat oven 350 mulberries
mixture a large bowl gently toss
divide between six six ounce
six six ounce six six ounce
ramekins on a rimmed bay king
sheet spread pea can streuth
toppling over mulberries
bake until bubbly stand
five minuets before Sir Ving.’

The bottle hits the rim of her glass, ding!

Lyn tries to make as beautiful a ding again.

He was here. Last night. This morning. He was here.

The flat is too white. The wood is too wood. She kicks the wall. It is easier to kick the wall than the floor. She kicks the floor. Wine sloshes on the floor. It is easy to slip on wine on the floor especially when you are going round the mulberry bush, singing,

‘Here we go round the Mulberry Bush, the Mulberry Bush the – fuck that
and wash our clothes, wash our clothes, wash our – fuck that
iron our clothes – fuck that
scrub the floor – fuck that’

Whoops. Lyn kicks the floor.

‘Here we for round the mend our clothes – fuck fuck that
sweep the house – fuck fuck fuck that
bake our bread, bake our bread, bake our – fucking bread
go to church – totally fuck. That.’

Lyn spreads her arms crucified and roars out into Wakefield night.

Not a sound.

All the white sugar brown sugar cinnamon pecan ginger mulberry mush in her tummy is coming to

Lyn kneels, one hand stomach one hand head the flat so hot burning lurching all at sea tilt

Thinks: air, what time is it, phone.

Lyn takes deep breaths, the stereo blinks 22.21 22.22.

She looks for her phone in her pocket, on all the kitchen surfaces, in the bathroom, through her tidied bedroom, in her handbag, her coat pockets, the shelves by the door, the shelves by the TV, behind the TV, down the sofa cushions, under the sofa, the chairs, down the chair cushions – stops for a few big swallow gulps – on the table, in the fridge, her coat pockets, her handbag, her pocket.

The phone is on her polished aluminium balcony table. Interlocking embossed rings.

Missed call. No message. She presses PETE.

This morning he was here. Now he is not.

Today she has spoken to him.

To his ansaphone.

And stared out of the window. Then the floor. Now the ceiling. Now the crappy wall.

Talked to Alan bloody mulberry goooooogle Bennett.

Stared out.

Talked to Tony Tommy Timmy some T at the checkout.

That Clara.

The white table cloth. She would like to wrap herself in Clara’s white table cloth.

Breathe.

The man from next door is climbing over onto her balcony.

She knows it is too late. That she is dead. No one can live this long, upside down, without air, even though the noose is very thin it is cutting into her neck.

‘What are you talking about?’

He is very agile, very young all of a sudden. She pulls at the the thread digging in.

‘You’re fine, what are you talking about, there’s nothing there.’

‘Tis, look.’ And she pulls, it is sharp as cheese wire, look at the blood.

‘There’s no blood, it’s … it’s … juice?  Come here.’

Her neighbour is hugging her. She tries to tell him, ‘I thought you had gone to Sweden.’

‘You’re soaked.’

‘I haven’t seen you for months.’

Lyn hears another voice coming up from Burgage Square.

Her neighbour shouts, ‘It’s fine, she’s fine, thank you. I’ve got her.’

Her neighbour has a chipped tooth. He has a hard chest. She slips her hand inside his shirt.

They shoot upwards so quickly she can hardly breath, just hold on to her sister’s arm and they’re spinning, the huge finger snapping them round faster, faster, everyone screaming, and she is fine, if she wasn’t screaming she would tell her sister how she is perfectly happy, perfectly happy that she only has a sister in her dreams, if she wasn’t screaming she would tell her sister that if she had been a real sister she too would have found the hanging woman, she too would have had to hate her father, but this way they can talk, be happy, spin, this way, up here, eating cake and oranges above the city screaming

‘Ugh.’

He is lying next to her.  He clicks off the TV.  ‘You jolted.’

‘Sorry.  Water.’

‘Here.’

‘Mm.  S’better.’

‘Good.’

‘I’m sorry-‘

‘Don’t be.’

‘No, I’m sorry, I didn’t ask you.’

‘Ask me?’

‘How was your day?’

He laughs, just a little, then more, then so much he can’t speak. All he can do is hold on to her.