FUSCHIA

Ten paces ahead of me, I notice her. Her stance looks permanent somehow, legs planted on the pavement, further apart than you’d expect. Feet arched in fluoro-pink heels (“Fuschia pink”, my mind offers in voice that isn’t quite my mother’s). I slow my pace to a walk. Not difficult, I am barely running, more shuffling forwards, but the vein in my forehead is throbbing and sweat slides down my sides. She’s facing away from me, her head a cascade of thick dark hair. Cars trundle past; a bespectacled man manoeuvres a large pram around her, two identical russet-haired boys inside, matching stripy tops, tiny hands wiggling.

Her blazer, bright pink too, flaps open slightly but she is a freeze-frame; a bronze figure in a park square to be rubbed by rain and pigeons. I’ve stopped now, nearer her. If I said something she’d hear it. She half turns towards me and I see an ashy cigarette in hand. Slowly, weightily, she brings it to her lips, drags, and drops. It rolls away as she steps towards the house in front of her and presses the buzzer, on autopilot. I walk quickly, am in line with the door - alert and ready - but she has been engulfed. An off-white rectangle (no knocker, no number) sealed shut. I heard no greeting. I look down at the kerb, at that smoking straw with its red lipstick rim. A straw dipped in blood. I pick it up, softly softly, between finger and thumb, and crush its still-burning end on my outstretched tongue.