‘Mrs. White, with the lead pipe, in the conservatory.’
‘Nope. Can’t have been Mrs. White.’
‘Must have been. I asked, remember. Nobody has her.’
‘Of course nobody has her.’
‘Then she’s in the envelope.’
‘Didn’t you listen? They killed her.’
‘Some suit, with an email, at Cluedo HQ.’
‘How are you?’
terrorised by your to-do list
sick of doing all the hard work your obscenely overpaid boss then takes credit for
hungry but on the latest diet
dating the wrong man but it’s better than being lonely
not reading enough books, not going to enough live gigs
and look at the time, lunch break’s as good as over – in a hurry again
‘Fine.’ You force a smile. ‘Just fine. Yourself?’
A pause, a slow intake of breath and you wonder what kinds of truths she dismisses as unsayable before she, too, settles for the lie.
Drifting on the crest,
Trapped between darkness and light.
Is the sun rising?
It’s 3:55am. The car park light sways in the gusting wind and makes shadows dance on the bedroom wall. Is the moon waxing or waning? Difficult to see without glasses.
I went for a run in the afternoon, for crying out loud. I should be sleeping like a baby.