Sweden stepped carefully backwards toward the sun. She eyed the dark grey tapestry of bricks beneath her flip flops.

Impractical shoes, she said to herself. But they made her feel like it was summer, even though it was only the fourteenth of April. Aphex Twin Day, her Dad used to say. She would have preferred a happy birthday.

Earlier in Starbucks, Jerry, the barista, according to his name tag, had said to her, a macchiato for Sweden! I’ll be here all day! It wasn’t funny. She wished she’d been called Laura. Or Hitler. Something easy.

Her shadow spilled out far in front of her. Her liquid copilots, five cosmopolitans, were creative with her trajectory. She had realised, with great excitement, that she wouldn’t bump into anything if she couldn’t see its shadow. She was right. And then she fell into the canal.