I tapped the steering wheel, then turned around a corner, feeling the car jolt and hearing a loud sound simultaneously.

I stood in the pouring rain, hands shaking, trying to get a photo of the number plates of the other car, and unable to remember how to enter a new contact into my iphone. The rain was dropping onto my phone, and I worried that it might get damaged in the wetness.

I drove off, hoping for the best, and unable to see more than a scrape on the car.

We’re sitting in the dark. We’re leaning into each other, and holding hands. I keep looking at you, liking your smile, wanting you to look at me so that we can kiss.

I trace letters onto your hand, hoping you’ll take the hint.

K. I. S. S.  M. E.

The spark catches, and I throw on some twigs, watching the flames lick and kiss the wood. I add some larger chunks of wood, bit by bit, and the flames grow higher, take hold of the wood, and the intensity of the heat increases. After the logs have gone in, and the fire is hot enough, I sit back, watching the reds, the blacks, the yellows and oranges. The flickering is comforting. The warmth hits my face, my feet, and I lean against the side of the couch.

I’m drinking wine, and eating a chunk of chocolate slowly. My teeth are probably purple already, and I’m conscious of trying not to show them when I talk to you, embarrassed by the colour, wanting you to think I’m gorgeous, that I’m perfect, that I’m charming.

I’m aware of my awkwardness, of every bumbling comment I make, and I cringe a little. I look at your face, though, and you smile at me, (teeth purple) and have that glint in your eye. I relax a little, settle down a little lower on the ground, and smile back at you.

I haven’t seen them for awhile, and I notice all the changes that have taken place. I don’t know Keek well, but Em was a good friend, and it’s nice to see her looking so happy. The scars up and down her arms and legs have faded - a large tattoo is covering one of her hands and forearms now, which is new. It’s an octopus, holding a dandelion - a foof foof. It’s all in black, she’s going back for the colour detail when she gets some more money together.

The rain is really pouring now. I’m meant to be going home so I can be productive and Get Things Done. But the weather is too foul, and I’m too warm, and talking with these two is much more appealing.

We giggle over smutty comments, and they tell me how much they love each other. They bicker a little too, but in that almost obscenely cute way that people do when they’re in love. We watch bad movies, and I watch the rain drumming against the windows, and the occasional flash of light against the trees.

It’s a coolish morning, and I get out of bed early, I was wide awake, and might as well get up. I throw on my dressing gown, pull my ratsnest of hair off my face in a hairband, and set up the kitchen. I mix, I melt, I combine. I knead and knead. I feel the flour become more tactile, the dough more stretchy. I clean and organise, and knead again.

I shape and rest, and mix the paste, and pipe the crosses on the buns.

I wait, and watch, and look again, and wait, and peek inside the oven.

I pull them out, put them on the rack, and eat one straight away with a big glass of milk.

A warm sunny day, the freshly mown grass, the slight breeze that brushes my hair against my cheek as I walk through the park.

A perfect fern poured into my cappuccino, which I’m drinking as I chat to my friends.

Freshly baked pretzels, kissed with salt, that I’ve just created out of nothing.

Seeing my embroidery magically turn from random colors haphazardly sown onto fabric become more and more beautiful by the day.

I am learning to enjoy the quiet and still that comes from the little things in life.

In this glorious place, in this glorious day, I should feel loving and Earth Mother and benevolence. I do not.

I take my bucket, which I am sure contains bugs. And I bet they’re all dirty too. I mean, organic! BUG food more like. I’d complain even more if there were pesticides though.

Days like this are wasted on me when I’m sick.

The sky is a dusky blue grey

The wind floats around my body

I’m sitting in an alleyway

Under an umbrella

Drinking coffee

And I think

This is where I want to be,

Right at this second, 

I’m happy

Small talk, deep talk, light talk, dark talk. Time flies, I become incandescent. I want more of this connection.

I remind myself of the danger of confiding in inanimate objects, just like Harry Potter taught me.

I fall asleep with you on my mind.