Lydia’s plate of ham sandwiches came towards her in the hands of the shuffling waitress. The waitress looked down to the song sheets on the table.

"Musician, are you?" Startled at the sound, Lydia looked up.

"No."

No further answer came. Lydia watched as the waitress wormed her bored way back to the kitchen.

As soon as the waitress had gone, Lydia brought her attention back to her papers and turned the first one over. The reverse was covered with handwriting. A romantic tune discarded and turned into a romantic letter; the sender a perfectionist songwriter but an imperfect lover. She had only read one page before luncheon interrupted, but tearstains had formed already and had smudged two or three of the words. The writing was beautiful, spreading over the page like an unquenchable fire. There was a kind of vigour to it, a passion....

A cherrystonelump rose to her throat as a picture of the letter-writer came before her. She had to see him. Just to see him, that’s all she wanted. Perhaps after that she’d want more, to speak to him, to touch him, something, but right now, all she wanted was to see him. His letter and the mental picture had done a lot to her. She read more of the letter, out of a need to drink up his words and thoughts, but after a while she could bear no more. She had to get out and get closer to the memories, the real ones. The memories here, in the Kubla Khan Cafe were minor and more distant. This place had the atmosphere of the relationship, but not specific events. Go to the events.

She sleepwalked out, carrying the remainder of her sandwiches in a paper serviette.

Walked. Walked to the edge of the town centre before thinking where am I going? There were two memories she wanted to feel and see this afternoon and this evening: the park bench of that first day, back in innocent April, and the bedroom of that first night, two weeks later. Spend the rest of the afternoon with these memories and perhaps she could spend the night with them in her dreams.

When he was away, there were only memories. And she had ten more days of memories left. She would live the past to its fullest until he returned.

Was the same park bench there? Being late Autumn, she had not been back there for a while: it could be covered with moss or penknifed lovehearts by now. Back then, it was their regular haunt, the only dry place they could sit that was not exposed to the full view of every passer-by. They had been grateful for the discretion of its out of the way location on many a Spring afternoon, and, who knows? maybe again. That first day had been particularly memorable.... But no, she would restrain the memory until she got to the bench. She would sit there and allow the place to breathe consciousness into her memory with its feeble kiss of life.

And there’s the mushroom cloud oak tree on the horizon: not far now.

Closer. There’s someone sitting under the cloud. Ignore him.

There was the bench. Still there. Good. The place was not so clean now, though; broken bottles in the bramble bushes, soggy receipts, a bus ticket and a dead shoe scattered around the small clearing. The same place, though, nevertheless, and besides, her mind could make it what she wanted.

The man under the tree was asleep and probably drunk. Clearly, this was now his home. Around him were a full plastic tumbler of lager, two empty whisky bottles and one full one, a small sack of clothing and a loaf of damp, white bread. She would probably be gone before he awoke.

The bench was damp, but her imagination was working well enough to dry it. She neatly smoothed out her long, dark coat and slowly sat down. She straightened her back, raised her chin and closed her eyes. At once, the first day swooped hungrily down to her like a scavenging eagle. It hit her suddenly with a stab. She gasped and slumped into a sob. A few cold breaths and she set herself in order again, posing as if for a royal portrait.

It was less easy to set the memories in order. But "begin at the beginning," as the King of Hearts said. The Beginning did begin here, after all. The essence of the Beginning, for her, was in his eyes, the way they and his whole face smiled when his lips did. His lips. Mmm, his lips were another major factor. Her mind lingered on his lips for a while. She would linger on his lips a little longer when he returned. She knew she could make him thirst if she were to confine her attention to his lips alone. She had just begun to learn these skills on that first day.

Again, she closed her snowdroppetal eyes. She relaxed. She melted with the sun of his imagined kisses. Forehead, cheek, shoulder. Beauty spot. Buttons. She breathed in, cold and sudden with his every daydreamed move. A tiny bite on the collarbone, and she began to move with him. Ah! Her hands followd the ghosts of his as they slid tenderly under her hem. The eagle pounced. Lydia winced with the delicious iciness of his November fingers. Long fingernails like talons clawed at her insides, driving her deeper into her own memory, the memory of him. Deeper. Mm. Cold fingers burning deeper. Ah! Deeper.

Deeper. Cold body steeped in phoenixflame heat. Deeper. Deeper.

Oblivious ecstasy: scream.

The tramp woke.

Lydia walked on to the next memory.

*  *  *  *  *

Of course, by the time she got to his street, the thought had struck her that she would not be able to get into the house. He was away, so no-one would be there to open the door to her. Nevertheless, she walked on, in the hope that a look at the house, or perhaps in the window, might be effective enough to ease the obsession, satisfy the memory.

And there was the house. She opened the side gate and drifted into the garden. The moon glared, bright and hard. From the swing under the elm tree, she would have a good view of both the house and the garden. Plenty of scope for dreams. She could relax here and let it all start again.

She sat and spread herself out on the huge wooden swing. She raised her hands to the chains and pushed back as far as she could. She closed her eyes and let herself go.

She let herself go.

She flung herself into the air. The rain started, thin and abrupt. She wanted to drown in the memories. The rain sliced into her face. The drips slid down her chest. Her dress shrank tight into her skin. Her soft, wet hair felt like silk against the back of her neck, silk rope. She rode higher, further, forwards. Returning, her hair slapped her shoulders. She gripped the chains harder. She rode higher, eyes screwed shut. A stray branch whipped at her right arm, making her gasp. She pushed harder, riding higher. She felt the sheets tied around her ankles, because that’s what she wanted to feel. Winced at the thrashing of the rain and the breeze she turned into wind. The wind rose to her rhythm and drove more stray branches to join the beating. Higher.

She felt his teeth in her spine. She felt her fists tighten around the corners of the mattress or the chains.

Higher. Teeth. Again. Push. Higher.

The rain died.

Down.

Wet and exhausted, she dismounted from the swing, and walked over to the back door of the house.

*  *  *  *  *

As expected, it was locked. But it was open. Someone had closed it carelessly. She pushed open the door and walked into the kitchen. The moon shone the room into lifeless animation. A plate of fresh looking scones and a jar of jam sat on the table. A steaming kettle sat on the stove. Confused. Quietly and slowly, she walked down the corridor to the next room.

The lounge. She knew the room well. She knew the sofa, she knew the burning-coarse carpet. She knew the old, grey grandfather shirt of his that was draped over the coffee table. She squinted at the always slow clock, which said seven forty seven. Time was moving swiftly: someone had fixed the clock.

She heard a sound. She moved toward the stairs. Felt unsteady. Delicate heart within her female fragile chest. She decided not to hear anything.

She climbed the stairs.

In the open doorway of his bedroom was a purple satin blouse. She wanted to stop herself seeing, but now she would have to raise her head. Certain provocations such as purple satin blouses require certain responses. Her heart, so strong of late, was weakening. Felt as precarious and brittle as a handful of empty eggshells. Mind wandering. Concentrate! Heart full of eggshells. Mustn’t look up. Dizzy.

She sobbed.

She looked up at the bed.

He looked up from the bed, carelessly crushing the eggs. The woman in the bed spat a profanity.

Lydia turned around and stumbled downstairs.

Reaching the kitchen, she paused for breath and leaned on the table for a moment, hoping to find enough energy to leave. She shook her head, determined and bitterly stoical, picked up a box of matches by the stove and walked out, away, away.

*  *  *  *  *

The tramp had fallen asleep again, but apart from that, the oak tree, the bench, the litter and the entire scene were just as she had left them. Even the wind had faded back to this afternoon’s calm. She counted to ten. Now to try and retrieve her former strength.

She opened the tramp’s one remaining bottle of whisky and poured its contents over the now slightly damp bench. She set light to each of its corners with the stolen matches. One by one, she lit the remaining matches and laid them in neat rows on the bench.

She stood back and watched it burn.

*  *  *  *  *

Now for the bed.