In a small box, tucked away behind a deflated blow-up bed, in a dresser whose doors were dust lined along the crevasses, were all the secret keepsakes that everyone agreed were weird for me to hold on to.

My mother was a hoarder. She held on to everything like a dysfunctional dragon’s treasure. When the box room became inaccessible, her things had spilled out into the house. I was not like my mother, I thought. Yet I held onto this box of strange things.

Among my shameful collection was a plastic tub with one shrivelled, discoloured white chocolate mouse; I hoped was once a sweet gesture to a girl I might still have love for today. I’ve been married and divorced since then.

I had dropped the mouse at a party in our teens, back when I was athletic, more confident, and not at all a ‘shambles’. I joked at offering it to her, knowing she saw me drop it. I kept it, offering it every time we reconnected. Years could pass between visits, and the girl now lived halfway around the world, married.

After my divorce, and another chance reconnection, we had gotten close again, and I remembered my love for her. She was a good person, slightly broken, but strong. I think the attraction was mutual, but I sabotaged my chances intentionally. I couldn’t subject her to my sorry state and in an ego power play, ‘let her be free of me’, whatever that means.

A metal tin, the most prized possession from my marriage, not my ring, still makes me swell up with joy, and bittersweet sadness. Inside were little black cards, each with a message from my friends, family, co-workers and wife, telling me why they loved me.

It was the sweetest, kindest thing anyone had ever done for me. It was the perfect Christmas gift. Though not expensive or luxurious, my once-wife had made it with sincere love and care, more precious to me than anything money could buy. If I ever open the now dented tin and read the cards to myself; I cry loud and hard.

I felt both happiness and each betrayal as I tucked the messages, one by one, to the back of the pile. If I ever killed myself, I thought, they would find me in a pile of black cards, beside that battered tin, having suffered through a deserved, lonely death.

I was a romantic and held onto sentiment deep inside myself. My entire life others, through words and actions, conveyed the message, emotional expression is unsafe. At one point, before my brother’s funeral, I felt safe to feel things out loud, to share my emotions. After a year of difficult therapy, I finally opened up about my secret pain. They all left me, even used that pain as a tool against me. I sank deep into the armchair, keeping my eyes pinned forward; the wardrobe, abandoned and looming in my peripheral. I didn’t dare cry

“One of Mitch’s boys has the door covered, and he looks nasty.”

“How nasty?” Tristan asked.

“Somewhere between a mangy dog and a freight train,” said John

“Right. There has to be another way in. Aren’t there any windows?”

“They’re all barred and look like they are hooked up to battery packs.” answered John.

“Probably fry anyone that tries.”

“Is this a nightclub or a fort?”

“Knowing Mitch, both.”

Taren spoke, “I could try to-“

“It’s not like there are other options. Let’s just force our way in. It’s just one dude,” said Tristan.

The others shared a glance.

“We’re goin’ in,” Tristan commanded.

“You ain’t on the list.”

“And I told you we’re going in.”

“Get lost.”

“Maybe this will help?” Taren rubbed her forefinger and thumb together.

“Don’t be stupid, Taren,” said Tristan.

After an uncomfortably long pause under a stoic gaze, someone whispered, “He looks mad.”

“He can look how he wants. I’ll smash his face in,” said Tristan dryly.

“Did you actually just say that?” John asked.

“Yeah.” Tristan answered.

John shook his head. “Okay guys, roll initiative.” The table exploded in an uproar with papers shuffling and dice rolling. The players readying their character sheets for combat.

“Do we have to fight?”

“Who’s asking, Taren or Corrinne?”

“Oh, I am,” Her lips tightened, “No actually, Corrinne is. Do we have to fight? The guys just doing his job. Corrinne turns to the bouncer, ‘You’re doing a great job by the way.’”

“He nods to you, but it feels more like a roll of the eyes,” said John.

“I position Corrinne between the bouncer and our party. Can I do that before the initiative roll or do we need to do that first?” Taren asked.

“It’s fine as long as you’re talking, but if anybody takes anything that could be seen as an action, then we’ll use the rolls.” Said John.

“Okay, cool, I stand between the party and the bouncer,” said Taren

“Does the movement not count as an action?”

“Dude?! Helping or hurting?”

“I think it’s more interesting to let it slide for now. Remember your initiative rolls and let’s try and keep in character for the moment. I like the tension,” said John.

“I hate it.”

“In character now.”

“Okay, so. It’s been a long night, I get that, and you are just doing as ordered, we totally understand that. Right guys?” Taren looked around the table.

“Totally.”

“Yep.”

“No.” Everyone turned sharply toward Tristan. “What?”

Pointedly ignoring his comment, Taren continued, “I get it. This is just a job, and you seem like a good guy, so let me run this by you.”

“He crosses his arms, tucking his hands into the folds of his unnaturally thick arms,” said John.

“How unnatural?”

“Extremely.”

“Stim-pack unnatural?”

“Could be.” He added.

“I want to check that out. Can I do a medicine check and use streetwise as my secondary?”

“Sure, go for it” the dice clatter.

“14. ”

“What were you rolling under?” John asked.

“17.”

“Oh, nice. You spot a faint puncture mark part way up the right side of his neck and his veins are a slightly bluer shade than they should be.” John said.

“Bluer?” A nod confirmed the answer, “I silently gesture towards his neck and mouth the word Ice towards the rest of you.” The players nod in acknowledgement.

“Here’s what I am proposing,” Taren picked up where she had left off, “I may have had one or two too many shots. You, being such an astoundingly caring fellow, are duty bound to take me to the first aid station.”

“He stares blankly,” John said.

“She continues. ‘One of my friends comes with. Two wait here and keep an eye on the door for you. Stop any of the riff raff getting ideas.’”

“’Money ain’t good enough.’ He looks over your head at a newly forming queue of patrons.”

“It ain’t bad money either, but here’s the other thing. You could easily take on little ol’ me and with those kinds of muscles, probably even my loud-mouthed friend, too.”

Tristan shot daggers across the table.

“Me?”

“Obviously.”

“'Probably even him, but all of us? I pause for dramatic effect. Maybe, big man, but is it worth it? I certainly don’t wanna fight such an upstanding gentleman as yourself.' I touch his arm carefully.” The table briefly laughed and clapped in reverie as she mirrored her character’s action with mime.

Tristan glared.

“Okay, let me ask for clarity. Are you trying to flirt with or threaten the guy?” asked John.

“Yes.” Four fifths of the table laughed again.

“I say we just kill him.” Tristan interrupted the reverie.

“Dude seriously?”

“What’s your problem?”

Tristan stood up from the table, his chair rumbled a shrill shriek, and his papers and dice flew in a mess across the table. Taren darted from her seat and stood between Tristan and the rest of the table.

“Give me the keys. We’re going.” He said flatly.

“Tris, ho-“

“KEYS!” His shout cut off all other noise in the room.

The players sat around the table looking down at their papers. Taren holding a fragile fortress between Tristan and the group.

Calmly, the heavyset John at the head of the table rose. “Taren,” he spoke quietly, “you are welcome to stay for a while.”

“Who th-“

John didn’t break his gait. “If you need a place to stay the night, you are welcome here, or we can call someone. If you prefer.” He folded his arms, “Tris, you aren’t welcome here. Doors over there,” he gestured.

The table all stood as one.

“Stay Taren.”

“Please, stay.”

Tristan looked at Taren, who flinched at the initial intensity of the gaze. She looked at the group, then back to Tristan. Silently she handed him the keys and stepped away with heat infused cheeks and swollen eyes as she held his gaze.

Tristan locked with her for a beat and then looked at the others before breaking contact and looking down at his seat. “You coming?” Taren barely shook her head, but he saw it. He grabbed his coat from the back of the chair and left without another word.

“Do you ever speak to Jeff?”

Jeff, eugh. What’s there to say about Jeff? Well, first off, I hate him. I’m two-faced, in a British sort of way, and I make friends easily, but in truth I judge people too harshly. Getting my approval isn’t easy. I know it’s bad form but also, in a British sort of way, I am proud and traditional and refuse to change; even to fix one of my biggest flaws.

Jeff joined the group much later than I. He walked into our little safe circle looking dishevelled with a sad, sort of puppy dog look. The nurturers among us immediately fell for him. He was relatively handsome, but I found everything to be somewhat rehearsed. For one thing, having a five o’clock shadow and wearing a loose t-shirt doesn’t make for an alcoholic.

His skin was too perfect, his eyes were bright and wide, he smelled decent, and it took him almost no time to engage in the program. Myself, I was able to hide most of it with careful curation, but the droop in my right eye gave things away. He is too clean. He spends all his time talking to women and seems to have a permanent gaggle following him around. They’re fluttering around him now in the corner, no doubt.

I came out for a smoke break. I can only take so much of being around that many people before I start to spiral and need to step out. I guess the only time I was ever confident in a large group was when I was drunk. The time it takes my social clock to run out drastically falls when Jeff shows up.

“You’re a million miles away. Should I be worried?”

“Huh?” I said, coming around from my stupor. “Oh, sure. I have talked to him.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“Should I be worried about you? You’ve been a bit on edge recently.”

“Nah, I am golden. What were you going to say about Jeff?”

“After his relapse a few weeks ago, he has really turned it around. It’s quite impressive really…”

Sandy kept talking, but I knew I had lost her trail immediately. I can’t get this guy out of my head. Just as it seemed that the attention he was getting had begun to die down, he came to the session looking almost identical to the day that he joined. Even his hair was tousled the same way, like he had used something to style it that way. Then a week later, he was back and calling it a momentary lapse in judgement.

I am so sick of this. I don’t believe any of it. He is so obviously trying to vie for attention. I know I can get obsessive, and I know I should probably ignore the compulsion to take this any farther than I already have but something has already snapped in my head. I know that I am going to follow him. I have to.

After the session and after a little small talk, Jeff decides to leave behind his gaggle, declaring that he ‘has to be up for a big meeting tomorrow’. I get into my little red Fiesta and tap her on the dashboard.

“We’re gonna go check him out, girly. Play nice now, ya hear?”

She responds by starting first time; it must be fate. I make sure to leave before he can get to his car. I always park around the corner from the centre, as I don’t want people to know my personal details. It’s probably true that most people who have trust issues have either been hurt or have something to hide. In my case, it’s probably both.

Walking to my car, I start to plan out the steps in my head. Tonight is just to check out where he lives, or where he hangs out. I’ll keep my distance and observe for now. By instinct I reach to the glove box and when I open it to see it empty, void of alcohol, I shake my head and try to refocus myself.

“Come on. Don’t do this, you know it won’t end we—”

Jeff’s car interrupts my thought as it pulls out of the lot and turns away, onto the street. I close the box, strap in, and set my hands to ten and two. I follow behind, but at a distance, taking no risks this early on. I lose some distance at the lights but keep on him halfway across town. I turn my heating on, and Girly does her best, but she is old and the cold night-air drifting in from some unseen hole bites at my feet.

He turns off the street to the backside of a building I don’t recognise. I park up a short distance away and turn my keys, shutting the car down and going into sleuth mode. He steps out of his car and checks himself out in the mirror, smoothing his hair into place and rubbing something into his wrists.

“Where the hell are you going?”

This wasn’t his home, that’s for certain. Has to get up early tomorrow, hm? I watch him get out of his car, then perform a quick scouting look before heading down a dark passageway and through a door. Not wanting to get out of my car, I decide to check out the front of the building by driving around, but as I do, I see a man rolling out a metal keg and placing it behind a dumpster.

“A keg?” I shake my head. “No freaking way. Is this a bar?”

Incredulous and filled with an unreasonable anger, I grab my phone and get out of my Fiesta.

“Wait here, Girly.” I say, patting her roof. As soon as I step out, I can hear the gentle thump thump thump of bass that tells me it’s a lively joint. I traipse over to the back of the building, doing my best to take soothing breaths, but each step slams to the stone in time with the bass fuelling my rage.

I reach the door and am hit in the face by the acrid tang of old beer pooling near the empty kegs and it stops me in my tracks. I am frozen in fear. What am I thinking? I can’t go in there, that would be it for me. This whole idea is stupid. I move to leave but as soon as I turn away; the fury left in me melts into that obnoxious obsessive voice and I am frozen again, caught between two ideas.

I settle for a compromise and walk away from the smell to Jeff’s car. Eugh, Jeff. Even his car is too nice. I lean against the driver-door, facing the door down the dark passageway I saw him go through earlier. My laboured breathing lets out my fury in short, puffy clouds into the cold air of the evening. Time passes and my hands grow cold. I alternate between blowing on them, rubbing them together, and squirreling them away in deep pockets.

The door opens once as a false alarm, when two guys leave. The one man had his arm around the waist of the other, but he quickly shrinks it away as he notices me. They keep their heads down as they go. What was that about? A gay bar? Then why does he spend all his time flirting with the women?

I am contemplating leaving, realising I am delving into things I have no business knowing, but torn between that, the betrayal of trust, and my obsessive impulses driving me to probe further. I am about to retreat when the door opens and stood in the passageway is Jeff.

“What the hell are you doing here?” He calls out, stomping over to me.

“Me? What the hell are you doing here, Mister Momentary Lapse?”

“You followed me? What are you, some kind of stalker?”

“You know there are other, non-alcohol driven ways to pick up guys?”

I pull out my flip phone.

“What is this? Are you going to take a picture? Did someone hire you?”

“Hire me? What are you talking about? This doesn’t even take pictures, it’s just some crumby burner phone I use for meetings.”

“So, what is this? Are you obsessed? Stalking?”

“You?!” I fake a laugh. “You’re not my type.”

His demeanour changes and he slumps his shoulders and moves to lean against his car with that sad puppy dog look in his eyes again.

“So, who else knows?”

“Nobody. I just knew there was something off about you.” I turn away from him to walk towards my car. “I am going to tell Jackson, though. Not about the gay-part, I couldn’t give a damn, but he should know if someone is trying to cheat the program. It’ll be better that way.”

I feel a touch of sympathy for his situation and hear him shift behind me. “You know, you don’t need to lie to anyone here about th—” I turn back to see Jeff, a calm empty expression on his face as he swings some kind of piping in a wide arch towards my head. There is no time to realise what happened, or even feel the impact. Everything just… goes black.

My friend, Bennett, had a dog, a black lab. When she died, he called me, crying until 5 a.m., or until his dad found us in the street and hauled him home in a fury. Bennett told me how he confided in her. How lost he'd be without her.

Brandii and Bennii were our cats. I didn't talk to them or personify them, but I loved them. Brandii had a lot of kittens. Often, five at a time. Bennii was one of hers. My sister raised him until she moved away. I didn't talk to my cats, but they listened.

To say that this thing, this beast, this dark force, a shadow lurking in every darkness was older than time would not be accurate. Before time, there was not a before. Yet, the Old Soul exists there. Time has a beginning. Perhaps it will have an end and yet another beginning, but the beast does not care. For it exists separated from time.

In the absence of anything, it thrives. It tries to breach our world, to drive mankind to a sort of madness. Just try to imagine an atheistic afterlife. Thinking of nothing brings you closest to shadow, to darkness. Those who think too hard on the topic graze the fringes of this Old Soul, this beast. They touch madness and are driven, in pain, toward it. The Old Soul consumes a part of them.

It can touch, only, the things that have no substance. It is infinite, because there is no infinity. It is silence and stillness. It is emptiness and abyss. It feeds on the lonely and lost for their lack of a thing. Every outline encircles it, and every blank stare pulls at it, bringing it closer to reality.

To fight this Old Soul, the only thing one can do is fill their life with as much substance as they can. One day, despite it all, the Old Soul comes, and it will not consume you, but will thrive on the lack of you. So, weaken it. Fight it with love and music, and your favourite things. Keeping yourself occupied feeds it with neglect. It will be satiated until the day it is not. Such is life, to an Old Soul.

If it weren’t for the two by one metre viewport looking out to the stars, the interrogation room could have been straight out of the twentieth century. The bright lighting and cold metal table anchored to the centre of the room. Like most detectives in his circle, D.I. Loche had, more than a little, idolised the cop shows from that era.

Hell, most of their interrogation techniques were the same.

That’s how they ‘got’ Mi’hal. Half their playbook was from the Reid technique, and yet these morons, these criminals, still fall for it to this day, all the way out here, deep into the Solar System. I watched as they sat him in the room and interrogated him.

“Mi’hal, I like you, bud, but the files they found,” the detective leaned in close and put a faux-sympathetic arm on his shoulder. “It doesn’t look good for you, Mi’hal.” Mi’hal didn’t respond. “You gotta help us out here. We know you didn’t choose this, bud. Maybe they coerced you. Maybe you didn’t have a choice. Those folks are scary, bud. Anyone would have done it. It’s understandable.”

“I didn’t do anything.”

“You did, Mi’hal. We know you did; they already have the evidence.”

“Maybe you meant to hurt those girls.” He stiffened. “Maybe that was your plan from the start, but maybe you never meant to do it, bud. Maybe things got too deep with your bosses, and then in the moment, one thing led to another, and people got hurt. You didn’t mean for them to get hurt, but it was hectic, all spur-of-the-moment stuff. Noone could blame you. You were just doing your job.”

“I didn’t mean to.”

“I know you didn’t, Mi’hal. Let’s clear up the details, so we can hear it from your perspective.

I paused the recording and switched the focus to room four. Mi’hal wasn’t important to them, but to our investigation, he was key. Sat in room four was the real man. My boss for the last three years in my undercover role. He sat, leaning back and looking skeezy. I had waited a long time to bring in this scum.

As I approached room four, my fingers trembled giddy and nervous. I keyed in the unlock code and the door whooshed. Parker looked shocked to see me walk into the room. His face settled into a smile, but dropped when he noticed my badge.

“Loche.”

“It’s D.I. Loche.”

“Well, detective, it’s nice to see you again, but I think I’ll be off now.”

“I’m sure you’d like that, Mr. Parker. But I gotta say, after three years working security for the dullest, dumbest folk I ever had the displeasure of working for; after all the lying and underhanded tactics I used to climb ranks, wading through the filth of your company, I just have one question. Who do we have in the next room?”

A flash of concern.

“It’s Mi’hal.”

His face dropped. There are no cells in deep space.

What a colossal fool I am. Embarrassing myself is one thing but being embarrassed by myself, in the confines of my own mind, is a maelstrom of admonishment and cyclical thinking. What really gets my goat is that despite me remembering the word, the word I just forgot, like an idiot, the word I have been saying wrong for the last thirty-seven years, I can’t even remember what the damned thing is.

It is one thing to forget but, how on Earth do I remember the shame and not the freaking word? I think it has a ‘c’ in it. I think I was using it without the ‘c’. I obviously don’t think about it enough.

“Tom, are you okay?”

Corrinne was looking at me with concern written across her whole face, tight pinched brows, wide eyes, locked in deep connection with me and my furtive glance. Their blue-grey gaze, sharp as marble but fighting for my side, it seems. Her lips, also tight, curl up to one side with a sympathetic twist. How can she be so nice to an idiot like me.

“Hey.” She calls to me again, in a tone that almost threw the tears into my eyes.

“I’m sorry. I’m such an idiot.”

“Woah now, where did that come from?” Of course, she doesn’t remember. I probably mess up so often that it is commonplace to her now. “Is this because you were wrong about ‘anticlimactic’ earlier?” I can’t stop the groan that wails out from me, nor my head from falling loose on my neck. “Don’t beat yourself up over that.”

“Now, there’s a notion.” I mumble into my palms.

As I hold my palm shield to my face, I hear a soft whimper from Corrinne. I force my head up to look at her; force myself to see her. She looks away from me and wipes her eyes. Between a sharp, snotty intake of breath, she says, “I’m okay. I’m okay, I just hate to see you like this. You are so hard on yourself, and I just want you to be okay. I want to look after you, but sometimes it gets to me.”

I reach out to her, wrapping my arms around her and remembering about all the times she has helped me. How I always seem to make it about myself. She needs me too. “No no, it’s okay.” I shush her, stroking her hair and gently rocking us back and forward. “I’ll be okay, I promise. What a colossal fool I’ve been.”

The light of the hunter’s moon is heavy and hard,

The folk in the fields fall fallow and sleep,

A deepness; a darkness within draws me down.

A seeping wretched soul, I feel. I seem. I am.

I sing great ballads of pain, belting out my bitter strife.

A knife-keen cut swells, to knot in my chest.

My blood bleeds thick, as sap from thick-skinned bark.

As the hunter’s hard moon shines and holds my heart.

I do not howl; I dream for those who died.

I cannot weep aloud, for wakeful eyes will know.

And those who sleep would see my soul stripped bare.

The shamble of a sodden man, his shame in hunter’s light.

A lot of people are silly and playful with sex. The notion is almost completely foreign to me. Some folks giggle and make puns, and some folks try hard to look sexy, through dance, and tease and games. My preference, with sex, boils down to intensity or shame.

I am a big fan of lust, of pinning someone against the door, and going down on them as their fingers slide into my hair and squeeze it into a tight ball. I enjoy gentle intensity as well. Holding someone, leading them in comfortable silence to a bed, and simple acts like stroking their spine with my fingers. Hell, I like the intensity of snotty, crying, let me think about anything other than my pain, sex.

Let me mention shame, and then we can set it aside for the time being. The more I isolate myself, the lazier, the more disgusting I feel, the more I crave the horrible kind of sex. I don’t need anyone to give me anything. This sex is only done in the dark. The silence is uncomfortable, but sacred. The more talking, the quicker I need them to leave. This sex is functional. We meet, I give, you leave.

The only way for me to overcome this shame, to receive, is through pain. Physical, emotional, and I haven’t tried it with a partner yet, nor do I understand what it is, but I am quite certain that I could handle spiritual pain. This is dangerous sex for me. I should avoid it at all costs… but I won’t.

So, back to the good stuff. The damned good stuff. It had been a while, for me, since anything like this had happened, see above. I was out of shape, and out of practice, and, as I told Abby, hard pressed to find my moments. Having confidence is crucial for me since I value control. Not having it was a chastity belt.

In my experience, nothing removes those pesky chains like a fire pit and some good whiskey. Abby agreed to a late night, hastily enough to remove any doubt I might have been having. So, we sat on the patio, in flimsy deck chairs, with the light and heat of the flames pushing out waves of heat that pressed at our faces, whilst the whiskey worked its warmth from within.

I had shimmied closer to Abby during one of my terrible stories that had us both in stitches, to where I could hardly tell it, and she could hardly listen. I hadn’t noticed when I closed the gap, so as my hand fell onto her knee, a little too familiarly, we had both paused for a moment before I withdrew.

She reacted fast, and with drunken imprecision grabbed my hand, holding it in place. I was looking to the floor as she did but glanced up to check her expression and caught the slightest smile before shifting focus to the flames. I kept my hand there with hers.

I am unsure if this is an anxious behaviour, or because I am some kind of narcissist, but I like to test the waters sometimes. Make sure I know they are interested in me. Even at eleven pm, with a date choosing to be alone with me, and drinking, I test them. Suffusive to say, she passed.

“Hey, stand up.” I say, regretting a lack of a plan.

“Okay.” she replies, and I help steady her to her feet, using the clasped hands as I do.

She stands facing me, and the joined arms rotate down to our sides, and my fingers intertwine with hers. She looks confused.

“I am sorry. I didn’t have a plan. I thought for a moment about dancing with you, just so I had an excuse for making you stand.”

“You just say all of your thoughts out loud, don’t you?”

“No, less than a fifth of them, to be honest.”

“Oh. Did you want to dance?”

“No.”

A nervous laugh escaped from her. “Okay.”

“Sorry, I just wanted an excuse to get close. Then I got nervous. So, here we are.”

The fire crackled, and a branch fell. The sparks and the noise drew our attention, and we were both hit by another wave of heat. I enjoyed staring at the fire.

“So, what did you want to do?”

I understand it as an invitation, but I feel uneasy, and it lacks clarity, so I don’t bite.

“Did you want another drink?”

“I should probably slow down.”

I am a grown man. Why am I acting so feeble?

“I could be persuaded to have one more, I suppose.”

“Why am I so feeble?” Damn, that was out loud.

“Uh, you’re not.”

“Oh, sorry. That wasn’t meant to be out loud. It’s just…” I take a mental deep breath and bring my empty hand up to meet her jawline. “You’re very pretty.”

This isn’t right. All this talk of intensity, and I flap around like this.

“Thank you.” She steps closer to me and leans her head into my grasp.

One thing I know, is myself. If we stay here, nothing will go well for me. Not here tonight, just here, in this spot. I need to move, to reset my brain, so to speak. So, I step away from her, and pull her away from the fire pit, towards the patio door.

“Come on.” I say with conviction.

She follows. We reach the patio door, and I swing her round to face me. I step in, pressing myself towards her, making the kiss an obvious, but certain thing. One last test to see if she will leave.

We kiss. Her lips press into mine, but as the gentle movement comes to an end, I push the kiss deeper and pull her into me. I squeeze my fingers into the nape of her neck, and her hands drop to her side. She grabs the bottom of my t-shirt and pulls it down tight against me, as if fighting the urge to tear it off.

I bring my other hand to her side, and I push up into her ribs. Her top bunches as I slide up. I pause, and let out a breathy “Do you–”

“No.” She interrupts, grabbing the hand and pushing it higher.

Under her top now, I grasp at her breasts and stumble harder towards her. We fall against the brickwork, and I use my hand to shield the back of her head.

She slides the now free hand between us, squeezing through the tight gap to run her hand down to my jeans. Grabbing at me through them. The sudden intensity of it catches my breath. I release her chest and move my hand down to her jeans. I run my finger along the waistline, half inside them, but never going in. Instead, I move my hand down over the jeans and run firm fingers between her legs, too.

She arches her back, and I kiss her neck.

She reaches to undo my trousers, and I grab her hand to stop her.

She reaches up to my shirt and tries with both hands now to disrobe it.

I pull away again, and say, “Not here. Let’s go upstairs.”

“Mhm”

She grabs my hand and waits to be led.

As we climb up the stairs, I look back to her and say, “You pass.”

Council walls were wallpaper torn,

Second-hand shelves, with fifth-hand tat.

But a tapestry hung at the top of the stairs,

The lady with the basket hat.

I drank in her reddish-brown skin,

Felt the warmth of the setting sun,

The burnt-orange kanga wrapping,

Enraptured, my mind came undone.

Too young for it to be mere lust,

I was drawn to picturesque form.

Her palette of autumnal hues,

In council cold, she kept me warm.

Details, art, to draw you away,

Dead-leaf-yellows, sun-kissed grape-red,

Her expression, like mine, was sad.

Pain, soul, and basket on her head.