‘Shots.’ ‘Not tequila. Tequila makes me ill.’ ‘No, tequila’s awesome.’ ‘Sambuca?’ ‘I hate aniseed.’
I hold my arm aloft. The GP, a well-spoken man in his fifties, tells me ‘it’s only a bruise’. ‘Why won’t it go, then?’
I could laze here among the weeds of the garden for a thousand years. Irene waters her roses next door, looking at me askance. I know you’re watching me Irene because I’m watching you.
(2500 words) Pyser Lee slept badly on Sunday nights. He worried about the week ahead, work. Having finally drifted off, he didn't want to go to the kitchen and answer his ringing phone. 'You have to answer it,' said Miranda sleepily.