I see her coming, hurried pink in the face and jumper. Her torso leans slightly forwards, shoulders furling in. She opens the door, it’s smaller than she thought it’d be, but she’s the type to pretend she isn’t affected. She asks for Annie, as a girl pours sour red wine into paper cups, making their undercarriages sag. ‘You’re not the first to ask,' the girl says, ‘she’s popular tonight, but isn’t here yet.’ She takes the cup, holding a hand under it like a new-borns head. She looks around and I see her cheeks beam cerise when she spots his face. Sometimes the internal does show on the external. She tries to read the pamphlet given to her with one hand, whilst narrowing her eyes at the white wall ahead. Under here I watch her, as she circles me, and I feel her unease in my lines and grids and creases. My embroidered eye blinks as she pretends to look at a doll on a stake, then a quick glance at the door as the bell chimes.
Flash - 250