“Where did the night go?” You ask.

“It’s under your shoe.” I suggest. You lift the sole, the white rubber giggles brightly through the marbled mud and April dew.

“Nope, not under there!”

The sun has come to help us look for it. He’s put his shoes on and his fluffy coat, his hand to his brow as he scours to the West. “I think I see it!” he murmurs gently, to the starling’s cheer. On the peeling green bench, we sit, you take my hand, and we watch our friend chase his into tomorrow.

The next day arrives early for me. I unwrap myself from the sheets, sit and pause for a moment on the side of the bed, adjusting to the faded blueish hints of sunrise sneaking out from the top of the dark, thick curtains. I wander over and draw them open quietly. There is no sound here.

I slip my new trainers on without socks, and throw on yesterday’s clothes to venture out. To the south is a congregation of tree stumps, remnants of the forest hurriedly chopped to help with the rebuilding. Golden crests line each stump: chicken-of-the-woods grown for food, of the kind the old woman had served for us last night, albeit disguised in a thick carbonara. I set myself down on the front step and savour the dew.

It’s eight minutes past seven. She’s late. I pull out my phone to check for missed calls. Nothing. I look around anxiously between the showers of street light, not quite sure what to do. In my brain I thumb through all the things that could have gone wrong. Oversleeping, kidnapping, death, all three?

At thirteen minutes past seven I am jolted out of my daydream by the collective rustle of a flock of lapwings all taking flight at once. The streetlamps flicker off and the sun bounces into the sky, dishevelled and sweating. “Oops” she pants.

 

Another snip, a flurry of folded paper spins downward. You handle the snowflake delicately, barely cradling it from the clutching breeze. Another snip. The walls are atom-thick. Not much left to take. A spider’s web of atomic nuclei bound together by dancing electrons. You carefully reach into the drawer beneath the desk, to pick out the smallest set of scissors, and toss the last pair onto the pile. One more snip. Boom. Oops.

Skin first, he slid into the water. He opened his mouth and gulped, firmly and steadily, with each beat of the second hand. The chlorine tickled his stomach lining. With each tock he got a little rounder, until the dry tiled floor of the pool was left strewn with inflatable rings and a crowd of begoggled, bewildered onlookers. They parted as he waddled toward the shallow end, crawled up the ladder, and headed to the changing rooms.

There was little left of Lara by the time she finally stumbled home. She’d been gone fifteen days. “Just one drink!” she’d said. And she really meant it. But things got out of hand. One thing led to another. Two hundred and fifty tequilas can do some funny things to a person. She’s not the best at saying no. She walked back to Peckham through the Gobe desert, dripping in Jägerbombs. By the time she dissolved through the door and collapsed on her bed, all that was left of her was a pair of blistered feet, a dusty traffic cone, and an empty handbag.

Every second Tuesday we’d have fish fingers. With chips and peas, in front of the TV. We’d style the heads of the chips with a ketchup bob, or an HP-fro. And we’d stand them up and they’d watch with us. Sometimes they would chat and bicker with each other, or give chippy hugs, smooshing together their saucey manes, while we shushed them still, so we could hear what Karl and Susan were up to on Neighbours. And they’d shush for a bit. Right up until their vicious, delicious, unavoidable end.

I turn past the blue house. Dusky summer’s day, overcast sky, taste of yesterday’s rain mixed with runner’s labour on my teeth. A faint synthetic flavour strokes my nose.

I turn past the red house. Concentric irridiscent circles pattern the puddles. I hear a scrape and a woosh, as the far wall catches the shadow of a grainy cloud.

I turn past the yellow house. The scent of industry billows black and factory fresh. I see a figure of flame beside the benches, a grey backpack, six empty Fosters tins, and a gas canister by his feet. I watch him flail longer than I should, immobilised by surprise and guiltily captivated by the rhythm of his dance.

My flat is ten metres away. In the cupboard under the stairs by the door is a fire extinguisher. I think to put him out. I could make it. I clutch the key, the green string draped across my palm. And I wonder whether this man wants saving, moreover if he could take the pain, the scars. And I decide it’s not my place.

I turn past the green house.

She carves a sugar horse in the yard and waits for the rain. It takes about a day: she’s a quick worker. It’s made from that sweet fondant, they same one they use to make those little pink and white mice, which the children guzzle before school like little sugar kittens, as their cheeks get fat and their whiskers pop. It is dusk by the time she finishes; the mare is roughly life-size, standing, with her head bowed slightly and pointed to the left, looking behind. She sets herself down on her garden chair, stirs a cube into her tea, and looks to the sky.

You have a tiny pimple on your face. Really nothing at all. Just diagonally to the side of the crease of your lips. I notice there’s a freckle due North of it. That’s pleasing, I think. But I choose not to tell you, because, well, who wants to be told they have a pimple?

After lunch we’re taking the boat out to the islands. You are cradling your rucksack on your front like a kangaroo with a baby. The red plastic seats are covered in sea spray. You turn from gazing over the water. I can’t see your eyes, you’re wearing those reflective sunglasses. They’re all the rage at the moment. But that doesn’t matter to you. You turn to ask me about something. But I don’t listen, because at this point I notice the other two freckles, the mirror image of your freckle-pimple pair. A perfect square. It is compelling to me. You are geometry. You are truth, you are order. But I choose not to tell you. Because, well, who wants to be told they have a pimple?