#I don’t see myself using this technique for the wrap- up assignment this week. mostly bc it's due 3pm Friday and there ain't time

[fchsadfa]

Behold! I have learned the art of smocking!

You fucked up a perfectly good tea towel, is what you did.

Have decided that I dislike smocking and I'm going to take the risk that my sample doesn't meet the assignment guidelines (supposed to be 2 patterns and a sheet of paper worth of inch grid each. I have more by area, but my squares are bigger and I only did little bits of other patterns, it's mostly messing around with the wave pattern).

I'm willing to experiment more in future with different combinations of stitch and material (my classmates made some beautiful things in silk!). The leaf pattern is intriguing...

I don't know why our teacher was encouraging us to steam/ iron the smocking flat? Does that do anything functionally or is it an aesthetic?

Also I find the "wrong" side of the fabric more appealing.

End of day verdict is that it's tedious, time consuming, and seems a waste of material when this style of smocking (unlike English smocking) isn't stretchy?

Why did this become a popular thing. Also why is it called Canadian smocking??? Mysteries to research later.

[throughthewwods]

100 Days of Productivity. Day 99

🧡 had my first listening session with a new client

📚 had a meeting with disability resources

My caseworker tried to reassure me that many older people are going back to school these days.. that it’s ok to take my time. I gently shared with her that, although it is usually well intended, people treat the blind as though we have all the time in the world.. because unlike sighted people, we have SSI to rely upon. Somehow they get it in their head that our bare minimum needs are met so there’s no urgency when in reality for many people living, trapped well below the poverty line is regularly damaging to our mental and physical health. Things like homeownership, retirement, being able to pay for your own insurance.. fundamental self-sufficient ‘Adulting things’ that take many years AFTER employment to make happen get glossed over in these conversations where I’m told I have all the Time in the world. what they really mean is it’s cheaper for them to have me take one class a quarter, the never ending bachelors degree, than it would be to provide me the accessibility accommodations that would make it possible for me to successfully go full time.. In my case, I am also responsible for my daughter’s quality of life. Her childhood, these foundational years are fleeting.

so yeah, there’s a real time constraint and consequences to moving at this excruciatingly slow pace. It’s not a cognitive error.

If blind students express concern about how long it’s taking to finish their degree and start developing their life, don’t gaslight them. Their awareness and concerns for their future are valid.

😑

I’m getting all riled up just writing about it so moving along…

🧡 listened to my relationship counseling book

Mostly I like when it discusses common mistakes couples counselors make like when creating a space of communication skipping the development of respectful communication skills, which unrealisticallyforces the recipient of verbal abuse to be Buddha. I’m fascinated by this “ both sides are right” technique. I like the idea of after someone shares their side of the story the listener then reiterates and from that reiteration, pulls what they found understandable about that person‘s perspective , not necessarily in agreement, but understandable, yes.

📚 Used my window before we had to leave to work on the data from my study instead of diddling.

⭐️ Got to my appointment on time

⭐️ Remembered my paperwork

💙 got us out of the house: always refreshing

Kiddo is a trooper as we jog to the bus stop.

💜 relaxed at the bakery for a while in our favorite booth. Got Kiddo the fluffy carrot cupcake and a lemon tart for myself.

She’s grounded at the moment for things I don’t even feel like writing about because it’s exhaustingly redundant.. but I’m also simultaneously trying to reward positive behavior.. rewarding getting work done, rewarding focus, rewarding effort.. there’s also that part about enjoying Life. happiness is invigorating. Joy is motivating. Having things to look forward to is motivating. One of the biggest takeaways from that trauma and hope training from the other day is the necessity to cultivate a snowball effect of hope (wishful thinking for an achievement>plan>action>repeat) as a buffer for adversity.. The importance of celebration and reprieve.

As a thanks, when we get home she decides to wrap up one of her overdue assignments. Later she tells me that she made sure to do that because she appreciated the nice thing I had done even though she’s grounded and ���didn’t want to take me granted, which I appreciate.

📚 fixed an error in the stat software that was messing up my analysis.. this program is super intimidating for me so that was a nice self-esteem boost

I miss RB. We haven’t been able to see each other all week because the supposedly Covid mindful mother I met up with for a playdate failed to mention they’d gone to a big party just recently. 😑  humans are so good at rationalizing their cognitive dissonance away. I don’t care that she went to a party. I care that she wasn’t transparent about it. If I had known then I would have canceled, something I think she knew after her small child accidentally spilled the beans and she stammered her through downplaying.

This is why I don’t mind government intervention when it comes to public health: because people are nonchalantly selfish and because selfishness is uncomfortable, many are really good at bullshitting themselves so they don’t have to feel bad about how their choices effect others.

And.. because I am a responsible adult, I let my partner know I had just accidentally hung out with a high risk person, so we together made the responsible decision to be safe than sorry.

At the same time, this week apart makes me aware of my growth. I’ve missed him, but I’ve also been OK. Stressed AF, but not about my relationship. Younger me would have been anxious, maybe lonely, doing whatever to make the days fly by faster, definitely hyper focused on cravings. It’s nice to feel balanced within myself. It’s nice to love in a balanced way and trust.

[metoo-desu]

Sorry! Wrong Slayer! - 2/?

’I think you should reconsider that joke if he’s a hindrance to your missions. But then again, he managed to find the right receiver this time. An improvement in his performance?’

It’s been three days since Poya came back with a response, feeling extremely proud of her crow for getting his job done and right, earning himself a short break. Y/n had also received Shinobu’s crow, who provided very vague details about the stranger who has been sending Poya back to her with messages. Disappointed with the her friend’s details, she sent back Shinobu’s crow with a few curse words, quite bothered that the Insect Pillar refused to give her a name except, ‘Oh. That guy? He’s cool, I guess. He’s around our age. You’ve heard of him and seen him around.’ 

Y/n let out a groan just thinking about it, splashing at the water out of frustration. Leaving the banks of the gentle river she bathed in, she quickly collected her clothing that had been drying in the sun. 

“Who could it be?” 

She never really paid attention to her surroundings at the Butterfly Estate, usually keeping to herself and hanging around the people she knew and felt comfortable with unless others had business with her. It also didn’t help that she rarely visited the estate. 

The demon slayer quickly dressed and went on her way towards a westernized-town for her newly assigned mission delivered by a different crow Oyakata gladly sent. Poya followed after, perching himself on her shoulder and happily eating the berries and seeds she’d hold up for him throughout the trip. By the time Y/n arrived, the sun had already set, bringing the town to life with lights, music, and fun— somewhere a demon would gladly lurk around for their next and easy prey. 

“Fly, Poya.”

With the simple command, the crow left her shoulder and flew away to hide. Y/n didn’t receive any details about the demon, but all she knew was that they prefer young ladies. Bodies were found in unsuspecting places, meaning that the demon knew well of the area and is clever. Her katana would be a dead giveaway that she’s a slayer and the demon would try to avoid her at all cost unless if they were bold enough to confront her. So while she brushed and bumped past people in the crowd to be in the heart of the town, Y/n hid her sword out of plain sight under her haori before wrapping her patterned clothing. 

Searching for a demon amongst a large crowd seemed rather difficult, especially in a setting similar to the Red Light District. Y/n thought of her friend who preferred these types of missions, claiming it perfect for his flamboyancy— surely he would have completed this mission in no time. 

“Nothing I can’t handle though,” Y/n hummed, thinking of another way to lure the demon out. “If I can’t track it down, then I’ll give them the honor to track me down.”

It was a technique she learned from watching the Wind Pillar not too long ago when they were partnered up. She reached up to her head and removed the pin that held her hair together, removing the tiny blade from its scabbard before pricking her finger and applying the blood on her lips. It was way better than how Sanemi would do it, who’d run his blade across his wrist and spill more than necessary. And so she walked around with blood stained lips, spreading her scent through the crowd and hoped the demon would catch the scent of her rare blood. 

It didn’t take awhile before she noticed a man following her while in a drunken state. She rounded to a corner and so did he, leading him into a less crowded area. He increased his speed and caught up to her, grabbing her wrist and pulling her flush against his body. 

He reeked of alcohol. So he wasn’t the demon after all. 

Y/n pushed the man away and glared at him in disgust, “Get your hands off me before I cu—“ she stopped mid-sentence when she felt a cold hand on her shoulder. 

“Is this man bothering you?” 

Her eyes stared at the hand, slowly trailing up to its owner. “He was,” she answered, staring into the new stranger’s blue eyes. “But I’ve got it under control.” She watched the drunk man scurry away from her peripheral vision, seeing the fear on his face. 

“That man,” he spoke, nodding at the retreating figure. “He’s known to bother ladies. Somebody ought to put him in place and I was afraid it would have been me. Wouldn’t work out so well for him if that were the case.”

Y/n smiled, not at what he said but at her realization. She chuckled, “Either way, it wouldn’t have worked out well for him if you hadn’t interfered. Lucky man.” She stepped away from him to stand face to face with the man. “But thank you for that. I didn’t want to find myself in a fight on my first night here before I get to look around.”

“Oh, you’re not from here?” He looked down at her, licking at his lips. “Lucky you, I know this place like the back of my hand. Would you like a tour?” 

“Of course, I wouldn’t mind someone showing me around. A good company is always welcome to me!”

The two walked around, walking from stall to stall as Y/n purchased a few things she planned on giving out to her Pillar friends once she comes back. Later throughout their time together, the man who introduced himself as Ito offered to show her to his favorite place.

“It’s a spot with the best view of the town. Do you want to check it out?” 

Y/n pocketed her little souvenirs and agreed, “Yes! I’d like to see the lights.” 

And the two went off to his secret spot, walking towards a dark ally. Y/n’s guard went up quickly went they reached the end of it. Ito smiled, gesturing to the ladder next to him. 

“After you,” she told him, watching him climb the steps before following him. He offered his hand when she reached the roof of the building, but she ignored it and helped herself up, immediately running to the edge of the building with Ito right behind her. 

Ito watched her, feeling himself already salivating over the scent of his rare prey— a marechi. He heard her gasp in awe at the view. 

“Wow! This is beautiful, Ito!” Y/n exclaimed, opening her arms as she welcomed the cool breeze. She twirled around in excitement, letting out a laugh. 

“I told you that you’d lo—“ He stopped when he felt an itch on his neck right before the world started to tilt. Ito looked to Y/n, who stood there with a sword in hand and the most blank expression he’s seen on her.

A demon slayer?

When did she pull out her sword? 

Y/n looked back to the view, admiring it once more before she goes on to her next mission. “You’re quite lucky to have such a view during your final moment. Not many are lucky,” she said. “I did enjoy your company. Being a demon slayer can be quite lonely so thank you for that.” 

When Ito completely dissipated, a black bird flew over to her. “You’re not Poya,” she mused. “Who could you be? Assigning me another mission already? I’ve yet to complete the next one.”

“I bring not an assignment but a message to Y/n!” 

The slayer nodded curly for it to continue. 

‘Did you really consider killing that crow of yours?’

And so he’s sending his crow over to her now? Y/n held out her arm for the crow to perch on, laughing as she gave it her response. 

“Training took a toll on Poya, so he’s on temporary leave until he’s up and well-rested. Guess we’ll be using your crow as point of contact, wrong slayer. At least there’ll be no delays and crash-landings that really might just kill my poor crow. I heard you were also a busy man, are you that bored that you want to keep sending crows?”

^ ^ ^ ^ ^ 

“I’m not bored.”

Giyu leaned back on the tree, his crow perched on a high branch, waiting for an instruction. The cicadas sang around him as he thought of a response, coming up with nothing after ten minutes besides getting irritated with himself. So he walked away without sending out a response. 

The next day, Poya appeared beside his crow with a message.

’What? Are you embarrassed? Is that why you didn’t send yours? Poya’s lame and I get embarrassed, but I still send him over to you. And Shinobu refuses to tell me your name, so it kinda sucks you know mine. Who are you?’

Y/n did sound familiar, hearing her name being mentioned by the other Pillars during the meetings. In fact, she was mentioned again in today’s meeting by Tengen who asked about her absence. Curiosity got the best of him that he had to push a little bit of his pride away and ask someone about her and that someone was no other than Shinobu.

Of course, he regretted the moment she laughed at him.

“Y/n is our newest Pillar, promoted about two weeks ago while you were gone out for a mission. Today was supposed to be her first meeting actually. Pretty bummed out because of that,” Shinobu finally answered him. She pouted, “Honestly, I’m quite surprised that you don’t know her. She was always around the Butterfly Estate before she got promoted, usually with me and Mitsuri. Now, she’s mostly away, picking up mission after mission.”

Giyu nodded, “I see. That’s all I need.”

Shinobu grinned, “Why do you ask? Does Poya’s owner pique your interest?”

“Tengen mentioned her.”

“Really now?” Her purple eyes narrowed at him mischievously. He left her before she could interrogate and tease him further.

^ ^ ^ ^ ^

Two crows flew over trees, cawing like there was no tomorrow while one lagged behind. Y/n sat behind a cart she managed to hitch a ride from, swinging her legs as she waited for the two crows to come down to her. The Pillar finished the series of her missions Oyakata assigned for her, finally on her way home to the Butterfly Estate for the first time in two weeks. Both birds swooped down and landed next to her.

’You’re a Pillar, how come you didn’t attend the meeting?’

“Oh right! There was a meeting,” Y/n gasped. “I’m sure Oyakata would understand. Well..”

^ ^ ^ ^ ^

Giyu crossed his arms in disbelief at the new Pillar’s excuse of her absence, who admitted she forgot about the meeting and unintentionally did a—

’No crow, no show.’

The Water Pillar was quite flabbergasted.

Poya and his crow cawed at each other as they waited for Giyu for his response, hopping along and following the man who casually walked through the estate’s garden. It was an unusual sight to the passersby, seeing the man who was usually disliked by animals of all kinds, to be accompanied by two crows. 

And they seemed to be enjoying his presence.

“What in the hell?” Sanemi being one of them to witness such phenomenon grumbled to himself, annoyed by the racket the crows were making on such a peaceful day. 

Kyoujurou approached the raven-haired man, curiously eyeing the crows for a quick second before he spoke to Giyu. 

“Oyakata-sama requests for your presence.”

^ ^ ^ ^ ^ 

Y/n scoffed, “How could this guy scold me through Poya? Who the hell does he think he is doing that after figuring I’m a Pillar? I’ve no message to relay, just shit on him, Poya.”

Poya loudly refused.

With a nasally voice, she mimicked what the man told her while walked to the direction opposite of the Butterfly Estate, being assigned on a last minute mission as soon as she was three towns away from home. “‘You need to be more responsible as a Pillar. If you can’t attend a single meeting and call it a no crow, no show, then you don’t deserve to be one.’”

“It’s not my fault. Whatever! Go, Poya! Shit on him!” 

And once again, the bird refused. 

[whatrosesupposes]

Vocation - A Trio

A short story written several years ago for an assignment.

I've never been privy to the lazy mornings of the TV generation. Waking up is a quick and painful duty. Cracking the sleep from my joints I stand bruised in front of the mirror, counting my ribs in the half-light. It's 5:30 am and Pilates starts at 6. Jake's still in bed, a shifting mass of duvet resolutely on the left hand side. I can't remember the last time I wanted to reach out and touch him or even to talk to him . Mostly when we're together I just sit and stretch while he sits stoic at his laptop with eyes full of hurt; his frustration at sitting on the wrong side of the literary agent's desk taken out on its keys.

This is our life together; like the north and south hemispheres we coexist, revolving in harmony, but always separate. I bind my toes round with gauze, swaddling blisters and masking the bunions until I'm left with a clean canvas. Today I will create something a miraculous to justify the theatre rental and to prove wrong the ballet teacher, who told me I couldn't do it. I scrape my hair in to submission, driving pins in to the thinning coil of hair and look deep in to my own eyes, willing success to come from 28 years of life experience. Constanze said that dancing is like dreaming with your feet and it's been a long, long nightmare. Grabbing water and a banana I run for the tube.

***

It is a perfect morning on the Westminster Bridge. Sliding in to a minor cadence, I leave the small group of Nikon wielding tourists waiting for more and lean back against the balustrade. The air is clean and it sings in my lungs and caresses my cheeks. It's that early spring warmth which melts away the winter despondency; warming your chest and crowning green beauty with a rhapsody of blossom, I breathe it all in. The change falling in to my guitar case is superfluous noise as London composes its own never-ending soundtrack of bells and languages, traffic and water. Filled with the hope of the morning, I swing my guitar round and serenade the harassed commuters who are hurrying past with the good in the world, as told by Aerosmith.

'It's amazing , with the blink of an eye you finally see the light It's amazing, when the moment arrives that you know you'll be alright'

***

09:06am and I'm still tired. 12 hours sleep, 3 cups of coffee and a 15 minute cycle won't shake the lethargy of a Monday morning. I wonder if perhaps this is what it feels like to be dying; to be slowly melting in to nothingness with no way out and no idea when it will end. Or maybe I'm dead already and passing time in purgatory by filling in God's paperwork, one author rejection at a time.

Dear Mr Patterson,

Further to your phone call, we would be delighted to read a sample of your manuscript with aview to representing your work. Please send an extract of no more than 50 pages, a briefsummary and a covering letter to the address provided along with a self-addressed SAE forfuture correspondence.

Sincerely

<>

What I should really tell them is not to do it. Not to bastardize what is likely a terrible, generic but ultimately beloved manuscript in to 50 pages which will be skimmed by a bored intern, assigned two adjectives and returned to them in a A4 paper coffin whose weight will tell them that it's all over. It takes a certain cool callousness to do this job; the ability to detach human emotions and consequence from the sealing of the envelope, dismissing the tender memoirs of a grandfather as easily as an expose on cheating at the Gloucestershire Cheese Rolling Festival.

I don't think I'm cut out for this; this temporary job is taking over my life. My own writing is suffering, buried under the weight of all the rejections as I imagine each one I address landing on my doorstep. Every lunchtime I ignore the invitations to go out and live, curling in my chair and deleting page after page of what I had written the night before. There's always stuff to delete, born out of the ashes of my relationship with Anna, pages of hurt, tawdry in the light of day, cheapened by my lousy prose and clumsy metaphor. It tells the story of a writer who cannot write, but instead destroys the work of others and a dancer who dances around the truth of an injury which will never fully heal. Seeing her each evening, contorting her body in an attempt to regain the technique which age and a drunken motorcyclist have stolen from her breaks my heart, but the words which I find are no longer a language she can understand. The tragedy of our small lives is not lost on me but bows to the greater sadness of the world.

Perhaps it would be better if I went out today.

***

The lunchtime rush is about to begin and I'm singing Jerome Kern to an audience of confused teenagers. I continue, rising through a semitone and spiralling up through every note of the scale. This is a gift, exposing them to something new which is so old and so perfect in its construction; though it's a gift they refuse. They move off leaving a young couple behind, standing loosely apart as the diminuendo in to the final lines begins and I give them the words of Oscar Hammerstein,

'You are the angel glow that lights a star, the dearest things I know are what you are'

Their hands move unnoticed, bumping together and they look at each other as if they hardly realise what is happening.

' Someday my happy arms will hold you, and someday I’ll know that moment divine,

When all the things you are, are mine.'

As the final chord dies they smile in the sunlight, bound by the song and walk away, each wrapped in the perfection of the other.

***

Inhale and lengthen my spine. Feel each sinew separate and the muscles knit to control the movement; extend, extend, extend, tipping forwards in to beauty as my leg rises in an arc towards the ceiling. The perfect arabesque. Until I glance at the mirror and see the kink in what is supposed to be a straight line. This is the gift of the accident, a pelvic fracture and a deformed sacrum. My ballet will never be the same again and I've known for a year.

God! What am I doing? Am I really going to sell the apartment just to pay for a third class theatre to put on a show that I can't even perform? This isn't vocational anymore, it's deluded. Deranged. A lie. As I stand upright, the world falls in to focus, the sun is shining and I can hear music on the street. And I'm hungry, starving. I don't even pay for the studio before sprinting down the stairs to rejoin the world.

***

I sit down on a bench in the Victoria Tower Gardens and watch a pair of kids chasing each other around the Buxton fountain. I've always loved the fountain, especially the story it has to tell of freedom and of family. Today it glows against the sky, all the roof's little tiles wearing the sunlight, sparkling erratically where imperfections in the glaze refract the light. If ever there was a moment to write, this is it.

Ignoring the manuscripts in my bag I open up my Mac. I swear I can almost see the imprints of my fingers on the keys, the whole thing looks battered and tired matching itself perfectly to its owner. It strikes me as a sad comment on us all that you can identify a person more accurately by their appliances than by their hair colour or their clothes. Seems like we all look like our blackberries now instead of our dogs, I'm just a guy in a tired suit with a cardboard coffee cup working through lunch on his laptop .

Now that it's fully booted I hesitate to open the file, not wanting to sully the day with the imperfections of my writing. But I do it, beginning to read; there's no colour here. My work and I sit here, a dark spot on a postcard picture; conspicuous in our lack of vitality, our lack of life. I start to edit. Normally I cut out anything that I would reject in a submitted manuscript, but today I decide to cut out anything which is not real to me. I remove the forced sentences, delete the pretence and the dead hopelessness, the sections where nothing happens to anybody likeable. And I find myself staring at a blank page.

Nothing. Empty nothingness.

At a loss I close the laptop and pull out the scripts. The first, a story of a Polish immigrant whose brother transforms in to a dog, goes straight to the no pile. The next, Life as the Bird Flies, catches my eye as the sun slowly toasts me by the river.

***

In the mid afternoon lull the bridge is at its quietest. Pigeons search for the smallest scrap and take advantage of the lack of traffic to shake out their feathers in the sun. I strum a few chords with no one to sing to and serenade the day with David Gilmour's melody and the words of the bard,

'Nor shall death brag thou wander'st in his shade,

When in eternal lines to time thou grow'st.'

***

Who am I if I am no longer a dancer? Ever since I was a little girl I've pictured myself dancing, alone on a stage framed by a single spotlight. I never imagined how lonely that spotlight could be; all-consuming and cold, holding you apart from not only other dancers but from everyone. Swallowing the last of the hot-dog I bought, I smile at the grease on my hands and marvel at my body's easy acceptance of long-forbidden carbs. On a whim I pull out my mobile, wanting to find Jake and tell him of my realisation, but then pause before pressing the button.

How must it have felt to live with me? After two blissful years of almost sickening happiness he watched me replace him with a guest soloist role at the Royal Ballet. But it was him who sat at my bedside for a month when the motorbike tore my body apart, taking a job he didn't want to pay for private surgery and my recovery. He must hate me. I would hate me.

I've been walking a while so I sit to take stock of where I am. It's the South Bank, quiet on a week day but still dotted with of entertainers and families. I sit on a bench absently running my fingers over the inscription, thinking of Jake and how to prove to him that the girl he fell in love with still exists.

The inscription says

'Dearest April,

Love sat here every Sunday for 52 years, but will be remembered forever.

Always yours, Jack.'

***

All the things I ever wanted to write but couldn't find the words to say; words of comfort and hope for Anna, an imagined future for myself, a lovingly crafted spectrum of emotion encompassing the history of human grace, tragedy and remembrance. There is a twinge of sadness as I realise that a long-cherished dream of writing may never be realised, but at the same time I feel a new faith in the ability of humanity to survive and flourish.

I will survive and I will flourish. I yank out my phone and dial the number on the front of the script. I tell the answering voice to send me the rest of the book post-haste and schedule a tentative meeting should the conclusion match the breathtaking opening. My first book, first author and I know I can succeed. I consider running back to the office, to start planning my new life; mentally listing publishers, potential reviewers and readings at Foyle's. But I decide to wait for the rest of the script. Instead I begin to walk along the river bank towards Covent Garden determined to find Anna, and to make her look me in the eye. Tonight is either the end or the beginning for the two of us; I'm scared that it's the end, she's been so far away but I can't live like this anymore.

***

An hour later and I'm still sitting on the bench, palm resting on Jack's everlasting love letter. I'd never really thought before about how long life was, and how beautiful it could be. A little girl in a pink dress and tiny ballet shoes runs across my consciousness. I try to block out the memories, squeezing my eyes tight shut and to imagine the future instead of the past. The tiny dancer stubbornly trips across the floor, arms raised to her father and it's Jake scooping her up and holding her close, kissing the auburn curls. He crosses the room smiling at someone and I see myself, the dance teacher, healthy and happy, watching my daughter and her father together. I don't want to open my eyes and break the picture but as a pigeon brushes my leg the spell is over. I sit a moment longer with ancient love at my back and a tentative future before me and then start to walk towards Westminster Bridge.

***

She looks as though she's sleepwalking; tiny steps and a detached expression, ballet shoes dangling from their ribbons in one hand. He's just watching her. I think they know each other, or at least they used to but I can't read his expression. I'm struggling to find the right song to make things right for them. It's melancholic but beautiful, a song of hope and recovery and I can't think of it. I search her face, delicate features picked out in a pale ecru, eyes shadowed and almost violet in the sunshine. Something more or maybe less than human in her manner, she leans on the railings dangling her shoes over the drop and closes her eyes.

I find the song, Sarah McLachlan's Angel, and as I strum out the opening lines I see a tiny smile.

'Spend all your time waiting, for that second chance, for a break that would make it okayThere's always a reason, to feel not good enough, and it's hard at the end of the day'

I'm glad that she knows it, and I see him mouthing along eyes fixed on the side of her face, where her beauty is cut by a cheekbone sharpened with hunger. When a passer-by brushes her elbow, my fingers tighten on the frets, as if they could break her. I see him take a step forward too but still he's unsure. The verse's not enough, so I roll in to the chorus, pouring a lifetime of small moments in to the words,

'In the arms of the angels, fly away from here.

From this dark cold hotel room and the endlessness that you fear.'

But it falls short, she won't turn around and he's taken a step back again. Desperate I reach for inspiration and with a rush of breath I leap up on the balustrade. Someone shrieks and she turns around and darts towards me as he does the same. Feigning obliviousness I deliver the last two lines and leave them to end their story.

'You are pulled from the wreckage, of your silent reverie.

You're in the arms of the angels, may you find some comfort here'.

***

She's a body width away from me and looking at me in a way I barely remember.

'Anna', I reach a few millimetres in to the gap between us and she's in my arms, tiny and broken but all mine again. She doesn't say anything but just breathes in to me, filling my chest with her warmth. She fumbles for my hand, unsure of a welcome and I take it without hesitating.

As we turn to leave I see her pointe shoes are still on the railing. She sees me looking, tugs on my hand and with a smile she says,

'Jake, leave them there'.