He stands at the sink and does the washing up, but his mind is on her. There’s still time. She hasn’t called or SMS’d, so there’s no rush. The apartment is strangely familiar, though he knows it’s not his. He’s been living here awhile now, but he knows it’s not his. It’s dark outside, and the street below is hidden from his view, even though the sink faces the window.

He hasn’t seen her for so long, but her image is perfectly available in his mind’s eye; pictures that span their history together. The strongest images are, however, the most recent. Flash. She stands in the dark-light of the street, looking up at him, dressed in baggy trackies and hoody that hide her perfect body. She stares stonily up at him, resisting him like a little girl, her exquisite lips tight in a determined pout, her eyes reflecting a pain he still hasn’t understood. Flash. Her smile makes his heart race as she reaches across the table at the club, curious about a bracelet he’s wearing. Flash. She leans into his car, refusing to get in, her short skirt tight against those amazing legs, waiting for him to stop talking, so that she can walk away. He does finally, and she does too, and he watches her climb the steps to the building, not looking back, deaf to his impotent pleas. Flash. The white of her teeth in the darkness of her bedroom as she bites hard into his ribs. He resists the pain as long as he can, then pushes her indignantly away, rising to his feet. Continue reading “The Snow Walk”