Zou
Ariste once had a dog, and it had died. Although that is the way of things, and although there are many people who have had dogs, and many dogs have died, there was a man named Ariste who had a dog, and it had died. Zou had not been an especially good dog nor had it been an especially bad one, but Ariste had loved it with all the force of a man who had little else to love.

Zou died of natural causes brought by an autumn chill, which is to say that he died for no reason at all, other than it was his time. Ariste had thought that it was old age because he had not been with Zou from his puppy years and had no real idea how old his companion was. They had not seen doctors or vets, either of them, because there was nothing that either of them needed from men in white coats who had certificates on their walls and who asked you to cough or take off your overshirt or jump up onto the table and be a good dog.

They had only been together for a eleven months and eight days but Ariste knew when he carried the now sagging shape of the dog into the animal shelter that he had just lost his confidante, the one person in the world who wouldn't judge him. Zou could look up with quizzical eyes, questioning a phrase or a tone of voice but it was a reproach born from equality. Those were looks which spoke volumes about their lives, the experiences both had gone through before they had been brought together to share these times.

They met near Mabillon, Ariste leaving a toy shop after buying a picture puzzle for his neice, Zou running from a café owner whose dustbins had provided his home. The dog ran straight into Ariste's legs, unbalancing him and causing the puzzle in his hand to fly into the air, pieces floating up to silhouette against the sky and then raining down upon the pavement like confetti. Ariste bent down to begin recovering them all into their box and Zou, rather than running away to hide, picked himself up from the phone kiosk where he had fallen and began to help. Picking a corner piece from Zou's mouth, Ariste looked up into apologetic eyes and was won.

Ariste's niece would have preferred Zou as a birthday present, rather than the puzzle, but he was inseparable from Ariste by that point, even though they had only been together for a few days. Ariste was unmarried, lived alone and although his apartment was too small for two, it was perfect for one plus dog. When he showed Zou through the door for the first time, he welcomed him in with a grand sweeping gesture of the arm, ushering in his new house guest like royalty. He showed the dog into each room individually, spending time explaining the silver-framed photographs on the shelves and pointing up at the little paintings on the walls, some acquired and some his own, painted years before.

Over the course of the evenings and days that followed, Ariste would take great pleasure in sitting down with Zou, pointing up at a painting and telling him the story of how that picture had come into being and how it had arrived in Ariste's house. As he turned his head to appraise better or to pick up a stroke of the painter's brush that played in the light, Zou's head would mimic the movement, as though pondering the accuracy of Ariste's critical assessment, or perhaps mutely suggesting an alternative interpretation. After a few months, Zou could proudly claim to be one of the greatest canine art critics in the world, thanks to the pictures in Ariste's house and in the books which they would share, the man sitting cross-legged on the floor to allow the dog a better chance to nuzzle closer to the glossy pages.

As only a small dog, though possessed of a ferocious energy and spirit, it was possible for Ariste to smuggle Zou into bookshops or cinemas and, on one notable occasion, the Louvre. With snout and the tip of an ear poking out from Ariste's satchel, the dog was guided on a mini-history of art by his friend and co-conspirator. As they went up to each exhibit, Ariste would glance around him to see whether any guards were nearby before starting a quietly spoken commentary on the artist and the history of the painting. They spent several hours this way in the museum before Ariste grew tired and guessed that his student was tiring also. He treated the both to a citron pressé (Zou's refreshment poured into a small saucer) at a nearby café before they took the Métro home.

The summer came and went, and it was Zou's favourite time of year because he would fall in with Ariste's long-perfected routine. Weekends were to be spent in the Tuileries, where he would bring a packed lunch and read until it grew dark. With the addition of Zou to his routine, Ariste only adapted as far as reading out loud. He liked that it gave him an excuse to reread many of the books he had last taken from his bookcase years ago. On those mornings, he would reach up to the dust shrouded shelf and select a book at random, brush it down and place it in his satchel next to his sandwiches in their greaseproof paper, some treat for Zou wrapped in newspaper and bottles of water for them both.

Over the weeks, Zou heard the poetry of Baudelaire and Rimbaud, the confessions of Rousseau, the plays of Voltaire and Molière and many other fixtures of the French canon. Zou became more attentive and excited during Ariste's reading of plays, mainly because Ariste would display a hitherto unknown gift as an actor, his face contorting into different poses as he acted out the lines, performing all the characters in different voices of basso profundo or falsetto, flicking his hand into the air for theatrical flourish as he did so.

The long, sun-swept days drew to a close with Ariste closing his book and packing up the picnic things earlier and earlier each weekend evening, and as the rain which started to fleck their walks back to the apartment becoming more and more constant, the two reluctantly stopped visiting the park. Their weekends were now spent by the fire with music, Ariste tuning from classical stations to the BBC World Service some evenings, other times playing records borrowed from the library near his house. Ariste would sit in his armchair with Zou dozing by his feet while the concertos and arias competed with the rattle of their loose window frames as the rains and wind pummelled outside.

Those rains that tried each night to interrupt them made a more important interruption for Zou, who caught cold one afternoon as they walked and didn't rise from his blanket for several days. The fire was kept lively and Ariste read comedies and satires to him to raise his spirits, but it was for no benefit. Eleven months and eight days after the smaller of the two had bumped into the larger near Mabillon, the junior partner in their alliance, their école, wagged his ears for the last time. It would be some weeks before Ariste could settle back into his routine and resume as he had lived before.

One day he found himself on a street that had been part of Zou's evening walk route. He stopped at the art shop, gazed in the window for a few minutes and then walked in, made some purchases and left, heading straight for home. Ariste brought his cobweb-veiled easel out from the storage room, set it up and placed a new blank canvas on it. Sitting back, he looked over his books, his paintings and his photographs, and then over Zou's blanket, still placed by the fire. As he began to sketch the outline of a small dog lying by a stack of manuscripts, he smiled for the first time in weeks.

When you cry
When you cry, I can feel my anger rise. I can feel the worst of me rising to the surface and ready to burst through the pathetic skins I lay across myself. I should be in the throes of compassion or empathy but instead I alternate between a rage I didn't know I had and an emptiness that is all too familiar. The creases on your face as the water drips down become to me something unsightly. I want to walk away, no, to run away from this and experience something else.

I'm not responsible, you see. For once, it isn't me. It isn't something I've said or done or not said or not done or any of the other millions of reasons that inspire you to cry before me. You don't do this to make your point, I give you more credit than that. You do this because you feel as though everything has turned against you, as though there is no point in restraining the aching which permeates across every pore, every thought, every small gesture that makes up the day.

I react because I have to, because I can't be responsible for each moment of breath that escapes from our mouths, I can't bear every tribulation single-handed. Every creature, when cornered, has a defence mechanism, an automatic reaction to protect itself from danger. Advanced beings that we are, we have evolved more defences than could ever be needed, and so they swim under the surface, waiting to be dusted down and taken from the shelf. You act and before my mind can react, I have already responded, defending against a word or a motion that was never a threat.

And so you cry and it breaks me down before your weeping eyes. Look closely now, because you will see me stripped down to the small, distinct parts; down into small emotions that I last used when I was a child, forlorn before a bully's strength, down into the lusts and jealousies that harboured me away from happiness, down into the building bricks that I always wanted to smash, deep down towards a foundation stone that rotted years ago, a sham keystone.

It's almost possible to step outside myself during this moment, to look down upon you and I, sitting here in this place, and observe with a detachment that would make me laugh if I had the least joy remaining. Detachment is the last thing that either of us retains now. Your tears flow faster now and while I stay silent, the words in my head are tumbling over each other in order to be heard, colliding and jumbling together in a mass of contradiction and nonsense.

The pillow you hug for support is a punching bag for me. Whether you mean to or not, you clasp it tightly towards you, hoping that it will substitute for a comfort that seems lost. You're searching for a sense of place, a sense of understanding amid the darkness that spreads across your mind as you surrender to mindlessness, an armageddon framed by nothing. Doe eyes with streaked cheeks, you can pause for a moment to see me without reaction, living my tears inside. As you release whatever control you once possessed, I struggle to maintain any trace of balance.

There is no balance left, there is not a trace remaining to counterweigh me while you cry. Everything low within me rises to the fore, overinforming and pushing back tenderness. Your expression confines me, throwing up a selfishness that I can scarcely believe, a self-absorption that sickens me in the same instant that I succumb to it. I haven't moved and to gesture now would betray the rage coursing through me.

I move. I don't know how, and my hand has already stretched across a gulf of guilt to reach you before I can understand how it has happened, how something so shockingly definite could have occurred without any telltale sign. My hand comes to rest upon your shoulder. You seem almost violated by my touch and look up questioningly. I can't fake my eyes and I hope that what they convey is more triumph than dismay.

Staring down at you, I don't need to see your hesitancy as it's palpable. I close my eyes because I can't bear the choice you will make, whether to believe the intention or the intender and I know that I would never blame you for the decision I hope you won't make. I feel a touch upon my hand, an electricity of skin upon skin, but still I can't open my eyes. The touch becomes stronger and I can make out the details, the lightly veined smoothness of each part.

I don't know whether to be grateful or ashamed, but your touch remains. As though the world is spinning, I can feel the emotions tearing around me as they have before and I struggle to make sense of them, to cling onto one single thought that can possible rescue me and to hold onto it as tight as I can, as tight as faith, as tight as myself, as tight as the grip you now have on my hand. I open my eyes and see you there looking up at me. I start to choke back my own tears.

Dance
There are jealous glances now. They were lovers in the car but now they circle and shoot dark glances at each other, away from the rattle of the other people. They have changed so quickly that it almost scares me, the fact that they can snap from one thing to another as though turning a page, a cheap romance bought in an airport to while away a tedious journey. They would scare me, though, because I love her.

She knows that this is how I feel and she almost enjoys her position, walking this tightrope of knowing. There is nothing that she could say to him that would stop me from caring for her and wanting her more than anything else. There is nothing that I can do to force her hand and there is no way to remove him from this imbalanced equation. There is no room for him and I could almost laugh with him, pity him that he doesn't realise this.

It's not a question of whether or not he will leave or be left or simply disappear from my thoughts and my sight. I have accepted this as inevitable and believe it so strongly that I might shake with my own conviction. She knows this too, she knows I believe. She flirts with my belief, teasing me by letting my hope wander down roads which I find to be closed. It's a position of advantage for her, and she intends to exploit it. I can see in her eyes, hear it in her speech and see it in the way she arches her leg when she sits, throwing out a leg to me as though that would be all I would settle for.

He doesn't know that it is me. He sees everyone as a threat, and I almost want to take him to one side and explain to him that he is watching too much, trying to spread himself too thinly while blanketing her. He shouldn't worry about some nobody she meets in a bar one night, he should be worrying about something a lot, lot closer. That would ruin the game, though. And we enjoy our games, don't we?

It's the thrill of the anticipation, the moves that have played out and the moves to be made. Response, countermove. Gambit, decline. Ambush, parry. She knows this too, which makes her even more perfect to me. He is the only one that doesn't realise the level we're playing at. He's spinning her around on the dancefloor, placidly content because he's with her, because she draws admiring looks. He doesn't realise that the closer she gets to him, the more he is allowing her to drift away in her mind, plotting new strategems and seeing new roads to drag me down.

And I go, not always willingly, but I go nonetheless down those roads in case one day, somehow, one of them is not closed; an escape route directly into the prison I long for. They dance cheek to cheek now, and her eyes flit across the room, appraising her possibles, her probables and her maybes. She's wondering whether she can distract me with some girl, while she in turn gets him away from her, so she can have some respite. No such luck. I know that's why we're here.

I'm talking to a girl and I know she's interested in me – not the real me but the me I am tonight. I also know that the precise length of our relationship will be tonight, because I don't see her as the collection of experiences and stories and little angled head laughs which she has learned from a magazine, but instead as a small diversion away from my main target. This girl I speak to by the bar is certainly pleasant and were it not for my diverted attention, I would find her wonderful company. But I'm using her.

I can tell without needing to see his face that he will create a scene tonight. He has been building up to it in the car. The questions he asks are too insistent, too crude. There is no guile in him, no sleight of hand or subtlety in his words. He leaves himself exposed and though she is patient, that infuriates him more. How has he survived this long, I continually ask myself. He can't always have been this obvious and uncultured. It is almost as though it is my disdain for his lack of cunning is the thing that binds her to him.

The song is over. The assembly rips itself apart to the tables around the floor and I can see that he is talking to her insistently. His jaw is tensing as he forces the words out. For the first time, I can see some fire in him, and it would be a shame that it's too late, it would be a shame if I actually cared and wanted to cheer him to the finishing line. But he was never there to compete. He was there to distract her. It looks as though the band are packing away their instruments.

I give my card to the girl with me at the bar and walk away mid-sentence. Perhaps she could be useful later. I walk around the edge of the dancefloor, where his voice is getting louder as hers grows softer. She won't let him down gently, I know that. The softer the word, the harsher it penetrates, a blade wrapped in silk. I find that my finger is stirring the ice in my glass while I wait, and I'm pleased at the image. Circular motions as I circle the dancefloor waiting for my ice queen.

He strides away, a theatrical arm thrown in the air as he leaves, a dismissive and impotent gesture that can't possibly make him feel any better. She stands where she is, not challenging me to join her. I feel static also, so I stay where I am. Why should I move on a dancefloor? It's all so terribly moving, I laugh to myself. Such high drama. Finally, after a time I don't try to measure or register, she moves towards the door. I get there first and open it for her.

I bring the car around to the front of the building and get out to open the door for her. She climbs in and settles down among the overexpensive upholstery. I close the door as gently as I learned, then go around the car and settle in behind the wheel. She doesn't say anything for some moments, and as the moments turn to minutes, I stare through the windscreen at the streetlights on the motorway across the roofs, watching the amber dots fade into vague memories.

"Home."

Spider-Man 2 – Deleted scenes #5
EXT. New York streets

Dr Octopus: I'm afraid I have to kill you.
Spider-Man: Oh.
Dr Octopus: So I'm going to use Mary-Jane as a lure.
Spider-Man: Again?
Dr Octopus: What?
Spider-Man: That's what the Green Goblin did.
Dr Octopus: Really?
Spider-Man: Yeah. You're such a copycat.
Dr Octopus: Okay, okay. Give me a second here.
Spider-Man: Take your time.
Dr Octopus: Thanks. Right, got it. I'm going to hijack an elevated train.
Spider-Man: What?
Dr Octopus: Elevated train. Deal with that one, big guy.
Spider-Man: I hate to point this out, but…
Dr Octopus: What?
Spider-Man: New York doesn't have an L.
Dr Octopus: There's an elevated section in Queens.
Spider-Man: You think I'm going into Queens?
Dr Octopus: Fair point.
Spider-Man: Thank you.
Dr Octopus: Well, I like the idea, so I'm hijacking one.
Spider-Man: You mean we have to go to Chicago?
Dr Octopus: Why not?
Spider-Man: Well, it's quite a way.
Dr Octopus: Do you want a climactic battle sequence or not?
Spider-Man: I suppose.
Dr Octopus: Don't get sulky.
Spider-Man: I'm not, I just think that it's a bad idea.
Dr Octopus: I'm the bad guy, so I get to decide.
Spider-Man: Why do you always decide?
Dr Octopus: Because.
Spider-Man: Because what?
Dr Octopus: Because I have more limbs. Ha.
Spider-Man: I'm a spider, you idiot.
Dr Octopus: Oh.
Spider-Man: In fact, because I'm Spider-Man, that means I have more limbs. Eight plus four.
Dr Octopus: No way, you can't count your human ones as well, I didn't. That's cheating.
Spider-Man: Okay, okay. Eight each.
Dr Octopus: Fair enough.
Spider-Man: We don't really have to go to Chicago, do we?
Dr Octopus: It's where they filmed The Fugitive.
Spider-Man: Oh, that's a fun movie.
Dr Octopus: Or we could just kick the hell out of each other on the sides of buildings.
Spider-Man: Yeah, let's go with that one.
Dr Octopus: Okay, you first.
Spider-Man: No, I insist, after you.

Spider-Man 2 – Deleted scenes #4
INT. Harry Osborn's home.

Harry: I want you to kill Spider-Man.
Dr Octopus: Funny you should mention it, but I had the same idea.
Harry: Good, so you'll do it?
Dr Octopus: Yes, but for a price.
Harry: Some calamari?
Dr Octopus: Is that a joke?
Harry: Sort of.
Dr Octopus: Well, stop it.
Harry: What do you want, then?
Dr Octopus: I want some implausibilium. It's the element that powers my cold fusion device.
Harry: Implausibilium?
Dr Octopus: Yes. And I know you have loads of it.
Harry: Okay, it's a deal.
Dr Octopus: Great.
Harry: Let me call my lawyers and my accountant, and we can have the contract done by next Thursday.
Dr Octopus: What?
Harry: Well, we're going to need some sort of contract.
Dr Octopus: Contract?
Harry: My payment of implausibilium for your services as a Spider-Man killer. We need to work out the fine print.
Dr Octopus: You're kidding.
Harry: Hell, no. If I don't get delivery of one webslinger in exchange for the material, I'm suing you.
Dr Octopus: Excuse me, but have you gone mad?
Harry: What do you think this is, a cartoon? We're entering into a binding, legal agreement and I want to tie up any loopholes.
Dr Octopus: You're a nutter.
Harry: Look, this is just how my dad taught me to conduct business.
Dr Octopus: Oh, yes, your very stable and rational dad.
Harry: What?
Dr Octopus: Think about it, dimwit.
Harry: Eh?
Dr Octopus: Your dad died around the same time that no-one saw the Green Goblin any more?
Harry: Yes.
Dr Octopus: You never see Peter Parker and Spider-Man in the same room at the same time?
Harry: Right.
Dr Octopus: Spider-Man is incredibly interested in Mary Jane Watson, whom the Green Goblin captures and whom Peter loves?
Harry: Check on all three there.
Dr Octopus: Do the math, bonehead.
Harry: You mean… it can't be… my father was Spider-Man?
Dr Octopus: Try again.
Harry: Peter was the Green Goblin?
Dr Octopus: Third time's the charm.
Harry: My dad was the Green Goblin?
Dr Octopus: Bingo. Now give me the implausibilium and I'll be on my way.
Harry: How do I know you'll bring Spider-Man to me?
Dr Octopus: You don't, but I have eight limbs and a grudge, so you should be fine.
Harry: 'k.
Dr Octopus: And, kid…
Harry: Yes.
Dr Octopus: Try to use your brain a bit more. The James Dean look is good, but you're going to need some smarts at some point.
Harry: Um, thanks.

Spider-Man 2 – Deleted scenes #3
INT. A New York café.

MJ: Hi, Peter.
Peter: I love it when you say that.
MJ: What?
Peter: My name.
MJ: Look, Peter, I can't keep hanging on.
Peter: Hahahaha. Er, I mean mmm-hmm.
MJ: You either love me or you don't.
Peter: Mmmm.
MJ: So, which is it?
Peter: Right, well, there's this thing.
MJ: This thing.
Peter: Yes.
MJ: And this thing is?
Peter: A thing.
MJ: A thing.
Peter: Exactly. And this thing, well, it just…
MJ: Hang on, we're not talking about The Thing, are we?
Peter: No, no. Not The Thing. Just a thing.
MJ: Okay. Go on.
Peter: Well, this thing is difficult.
MJ: Sure.
Peter: You see, with great power…
MJ: If I hear that one more time, I swear I will scream.
Peter: Okay, okay.
MJ: So what's the thing?
Peter: Well, here goes. I do love you.
MJ: I knew it.
Peter: So…
MJ: Well, too late, moron. I'm going out with an astronaut.
Peter: What?
MJ: Yes, an astronaut.
Peter: That is one hell of a long-distance relationship.
MJ: No, he's here in New York.
Peter: Oh, right.
MJ: And he's your boss's son.
Peter: Okay.
MJ: I told you I couldn't wait forever.
Peter: I know, but I didn't think you meant it.
MJ: So I am supposed to just wait until you're ready and put my life on hold?
Peter: I didn't mean that.
MJ: Typical. I do have a career you know.
Peter: I know.
MJ: And I'm not just going to hang around in the rain for you.
Peter: Okay, let's not turn this into a domestic.
MJ: Don't try and shut me up.
Peter: Forget it, if this is what you're like now, I'd hate to think what would happen if we're married.
MJ: Ah.
Peter: What now?
MJ: I'm actually engaged to this astronaut.
Peter: You're going to marry him?
MJ: Well, yes. He's dependable, unlike you.
Peter: Dependable? The guy spends his working day in outer space.
MJ: I'm not just going to sit here and argue, you know.
Peter: Fine, fine.

[Silence]

Peter: I feel sure that a car should have smashed through the café by now.

Spider-Man 2 – Deleted scenes #2
INT. Empire State University.

Octavius: Hello, I'm Dr Otto Octavius.
Connors: Hello, I'm Dr Curt Connors.
Peter: Hi, I'm Peter Parker.
Connors: Stan Lee was having a laugh, right?
Octavius: What?
Connors: Our names.
Octavius: I don't follow you.
Connors: Never mind. Dr Octavius, I'd like to introduce my brilliant but lazy student, Peter Parker.
Peter: Hi.
Octavius: Hi.
Connors: Okay, I'll be off now. I'll see you fleetingly in about 50 minutes screen time and then possibly Spidey 3.
Peter: Bye.
Octavius: Bye.
Peter: So, what are you doing here, Dr Octavius?
Octavius: Well, I'm experimenting with cold fusion.
Peter: Cold fusion. Wow. Isn't that like The Saint movie?
Octavius: What?
Peter: You know, that really bad Val Kilmer one.
Octavius: Batman Forever?
Peter: No, no. Elisabeth Shue was in it.
Octavius: Cocktail?
Peter: Look, never mind. Cold fusion, eh? I actually know quite a lot about that.
Octavius: Good, that means we can debate intelligently, despite the fact that I've spent my life doing this, and you're only in college.
Peter: What's that thingy over there?
Octavius: Oh, just my robotic arms, don't worry about them.
Peter: Robotic arms?
Octavius: Yes, they help me control the flungy doodah in the centre of the cold fusion reactor.
Peter: Erm, did you say 'flungy doodah'?
Octavius: Yes.
Peter: What's that?
Octavius: It doesn't matter.
Peter: It just sounds made up.
Octavius: Like you understand the rest of my explanation.
Peter: Fair point. Still, at least those robotic arms will come in handy.
Octavius: Oh yes, and I should imagine that nothing bad will happen when I'm wearing those.
Peter: That's reassuring.
Octavius: It's funny in a way, because when I wear my robotic arms, I have eight limbs.
Peter: And…
Octavius: And my name is Octavius.
Peter: I think everyone got that from the very beginning, actually.
Octavius: And I was born in October.
Peter: You just made that up.
Octavius: Go check.
Peter: Maybe I will.
Octavius: Maybe you should.
Peter: While I'm gone, make sure nothing happens with those not-dangerous-at-all robotic arms, eh?
Octavius: Gotcha. Not a problem.

Spider-Man 2 – Deleted scenes #1
INT. Aunt May's house.

Peter: Aunt May, I really need to talk to you about something.
Aunt May: One moment, dear, I'm fixing dinner.
Peter: It's really quite important.
Aunt May: Just a second, dear.
Peter: It's about Uncle Ben.
Aunt May: I don't think we're having rice tonight, Peter.
Peter: No, I mean your dead husband.
Aunt May: Oh.
Peter: I was there when he died.
Aunt May: Oh.
Peter: It was my fault.
Aunt May: Oh.
Peter: Is that all you can say, "Oh"?
Aunt May: I don't know what to say.
Peter: He died because I made the wrong choice.
Aunt May: Oh.
Peter: Stop with the "Oh" already.
Aunt May: Pass me that plate, dear.
Peter: Is any of this getting through?
Aunt May: What, dear?
Peter: Aunt May, I think we need to think about getting you some help.
Aunt May: Help, dear?
Peter: I don't know how to put this, but you're clearly insane.
Aunt May: Mmm, yes, dear.
Peter: You've gone from being kindly and wise to being a complete nut-job.
Aunt May: Could you fetch the salt, Peter?
Peter: There's something very wrong with you, Aunt May, and I'd like you to get some medical advice.
Aunt May: Of course, dear, after dinner.
Peter: So you're cool with the whole 'me being responsible' thing.
Aunt May: I know that you're trying your best, Peter.
Peter: I have something else to admit to you.
Aunt May: What's that?
Peter: I'm Spider-Man.
Aunt May: Of course you are, dear.
Peter: No, I really am.
Aunt May: Well, eat up all your spider-greens, dear, otherwise you'll never get big and strong.
Peter: Aunt May, I'm already big and strong. I can spin webs, dammit, I'm a superhero.
Aunt May: Of course you are, dear.
Peter: Look, I'm Spider-Man.
Aunt May: And you say that I need help?

Faded
I can't see her face any more, even though for months it burned into my eyes like a flare from the sun. I didn't flake out, I didn't crumble. I didn't want to take a leave of absence from work while I sorted myself out, so I didn't. I turned up every morning on time, ready for the day ahead, I took my lunch hour in the staff canteen and I left on time, commuting back to the empty apartment, where I would sit in front of the newspaper in our cramped kitchen.

My brother visited me a few times at the beginning, but he stopped after a while. There was only so much of the silent treatment he could handle and he didn't know what to say, he didn't want to be there. On the third visit, I told him that if he didn't want to come over, he shouldn't. No dues were paid by making himself feel bad as well. He stopped visiting. I didn't let the apartment go wild, either. Every Saturday, I cleaned just the way she had done, following the same routines, to make sure that everything looked the same.

The insurance company paid out without any complaint, and although I had more money that I could deal with, I wasn't sure that I should have it at all. Just reading the letter from them took me back to conversations we had started about lottery wins, and what we would do with a million pounds. She said that she would have holidays and expensive clothes, I always said that we would buy a house. She would sigh as we sat at the kitchen table, going over the bills, deciding in which month we would pay each one.

Her parents had died years ago so there were few people I needed to contact. There were few people who knew enough or cared enough to express any emotion about her, however well-meant and ill expressed. My work colleagues knew her only vaguely, as a name in someone else's life, a bit part player in stories which they heard in the background or laughed at over lunch. My family had only met her once, so their grief was for me, transferring their memories of their own bereavements onto me, imagining my reactions and emotions, then predicting my responses.

There were few others because I had never relied on them; I had depended upon her. The apartment is still the same as before because I expect her to be there when I open the front door and rest my hat on the table. I keep the place tidy so she won't mock-chide me. I line up all my shoes by the end of the bed just as I always had done, because otherwise she will trip over them when she wakes before me and goes to the window to open the curtains. Except she won't. I'll never again see her aglow in morning warmth while my fuzzy sight adjusts away from sleep.

Every other weekend, on Sunday, I travel to the park we both loved. I sit on the bench which looks away from the duck pond and I read out stories and articles from the newspapers to the small tree which is planted next to the bench. Sometimes I think that the small leaves lean in closer when she wants to hear me speak up or when she is interested in the story. I know that at some point I will falter, my voice cracking as I picture her hair or summer dress against the wooden bench.

I can't see her face, and a part of me dies in that moment. I don't care that people may be looking at me while I hold my head in my hands and sob. I suppose nothing can be remembered forever, but I thought that she would.

Silences
Julian is sitting at the end of the bed, naked, sheets over his lap. He runs his hands through his hair in an attempt to straighten it out, to calm the rogue strands, to order the unruly waves descending upon his forehead and into his eyes. He doesn't want to move, he fears to move too much in case he wakes Amy, who is still sleeping. Their clothes lie where they fell, scattered across the wooden floor of the bedroom, some peeking from under the bed, others overhanging from the arm of the chair by the window. The morning sun is streaming in through the thin net curtain and casting shapes across the coloured fabrics of trousers, a shirt, a bra.

He looks around the room and tries to locate all his clothes. He is only missing two: his boxer shorts and one of his cufflinks. He tries to remember where his underwear would be, but the events of last night are hazy and disjointed. A sound of laughing is still echoing in his eardrums and, judging from the state of the place, he realises that his missing items could be anywhere. He turns to check that Amy is still asleep, startled by a small movement underneath the duvet. She is merely adjusting her position in the bed, deep in her slumber, a small smile playing across her face, perhaps mocking him.

Small snapshots of memory jump across his mind's eye. Sitting in the kitchen with mugs of red wine. Knocking over a small table lamp as the two went from the living room to the bedroom. Giggly complicity while they convinced each other that they shouldn't be doing this, while they undressed each other. A short moment of tenderness amidst the hyperactivity. An anonymity of release from their play-act banterings. Julian shudders at the end of the bed, recalling words that should not have been said and answers which should never have been given voice.

He gets up now, modest in retrospect as he wraps the sheet around him, to collect his clothes and hunt for what is missing. Far under the bed, he finds his boxer shorts, hand trailing past other items which bring split-second frames of the previous night back to him, jokes that were made about each other's underwear, innuendos to heighten a forbidden anticipation. He recalls the silences now, the minutes where words didn't need to be said, because there was an understanding which went beyond them.

As he dresses in the bathroom, splashing water across his face and hair with one hand while buttoning his shirt with the other, he looks into his reflection and wonders what he will do. There is a disquiet, an aching feeling in his stomach, about a day which has to be lived like any other, only with a knowledge that he cannot share and a powerlessness that he dare not explain. Ready to leave, he goes back into the bedroom to collect … nothing. He goes back into the bedroom to have one look at Amy before he leaves, for a reason he cannot explain.

Slipping on his jacket, collecting his bag, tying his shoelaces, all these are done quietly, quickly, efficiently before he unlatches the front door and leaves for the nearest tube station to travel into work. As the door closes, Amy stirs and opens one eye to see the other half of the bed is empty, a cold imprint of a body she had only half-expected to remain. She rises and collects a robe from the chair by the window. As she puts it on, she notices a small dot of silver next to the small patchwork cushion and she picks up the cufflink. Clasping her fingers around it, she looks out over the low rooftops across into London and smiles.

She makes coffee and sits in her living room, surveying the detritus of the evening before, her memory complete and photographic. Amy recalls clumsy attempts at seduction, hushing down protests, an outstretched hand for guiding into the bedroom, a disconnected telephone. She sees rumpled cushions, CDs and magazines in disarray. She closes her eyes to savour a moment that should never have existed, before considering breakfast, a shower, tidying up, perhaps lunch with a girlfriend, maybe even a house call.

Returning home that evening, Julian steps into his hallway and deposits his bag under the hall table, hangs his jacket on the hook and leaves his shoes on the mat. He goes into the kitchen, undoing his tie as he walks, to see Helen sitting on a stool by the counter, with a telephone resting by her hand. Before he has a chance to speak, he notices that her eyes are red, her cheeks are glistening, and that there is something on the table glinting under the halogen kitchen lights. Gently turning on the table is a small, round silver cufflink.

Reading the signs
He is lingering in the European Travel section and occasionally glances over at her, though he may be looking at the large poster behind her. She looks back up, as though she is confused about where her desired book may be located. As she looks over at him, his eyes move away and stray back over the spines of Lonely Planet and Let's Go guides for Lithuania and Macedonia. She is in Fiction W-Z and wonders how she can move from there to European Travel without going through Erotica, just in case someone from work sees her.

She gets as far as Food & Drink and glances over to see that he too has moved and is now in Humour. That could be a good sign, she thinks, and then realises that someone who is buying humorous books may be doing so as a response to a their own humour deficiency. European Travel was good because he wants to broaden his mind by experiencing other cultures, there's no obvious downside there. He doesn't stay long in Humour, she notices while flicking through a Nigel Slater hardback she already owns.

As she is replacing the book on the shelf, she loses sight of him for a moment due to a combination of a large man leaning over her to pick up a recipe book and the display pillar between Humour and General Interest. As she navigates past the end of Cookery and into Gardening, she looks around General Interest but can't find him. She adjust around and finds him going down the short steps into the recessed area for Entertainment. A movie buff, she wonders, or perhaps a musician. She prays it isn't science fiction.

Perhaps I can go through to Poetry via the corner of Architecture and Photography while he's looking at Classical Music, she thinks. That way, I'll get a clear view of the books he is selecting. She reminds herself that she must walk slowly, and as she does so, she stops now and again to look at a book or run a finger down an interesting spine. Sometimes she folds her arms while considering which version of a book is preferable, and at one point she puts her hand to her mouth, angling her head to one side, because she thinks that this is the universal pose for a thinker.

Eventually she gets round to Poetry and sees a Wendy Cope collection. He has moved from Classical Music to Popular Music and is leafing through an Elvis Presley biography, so she turns back to the book and picks a page at random: Two Cures for Love.

1. Don't see him. Don't phone or write a letter
2. The easy way: get to know him better.

She laughs and keeps hold of the book to buy it. He is leaving Popular Music, now holding a second Presley biography also, and seems to be moving towards the upstairs tills. The layout of the shop starts to light up in her mind, and she knows that she can catch him by the 3 for 2 table at the front, possibly at Fiction A-D and, if she moves quickly, she could intercept him before he gets to Mind, Body and Soul. He has already started up the steps. She nips around a sullen twentysomething holding Douglas Coupland novel as though it were a live grenade, and starts up the parallel steps.

With a few seconds to go before he gets to the counter, she manages to go round one of the low tables and narrowly avoid toppling into a graphic novels carousel. They arrive at the till together and hold their books out simultaneously to the cashier. The cashier asks them to wait for one moment while she answers the phone. They look down at each other's books, trying to think of something interesting to say. He looks back up at her and asks,

"Have you read Two Cures for Love?"

From Platform 1
I stood on the tube station platform in the same place as I always stood, waiting for the same train at the same time, only ever-so-slightly late for work. Crumpled copies of Metro were rustling their way across the grimy floor, dodging the weeks-old chewing gum and crisp packets, and the tannoy announcer was as incomprehensible as every other weekday morning, overcompensating for the broken PA by speaking too loudly and overdoing the sibilants. Some schoolboys were standing by the underground map kicking their friend's rucksack like a football.

Across from me, on the other platform, the people milled around, listening to their headphones or reading newspapers, both free and bought, while they waited for their trains. I recognised one or two of them from previous mornings when I had been staring half-asleep across the train tracks rather than attempting to repair my old and nearly dead Walkman or reading a book or trying to sleep while standing up. The indicator board didn't show the arrival of the next train. Instead it told us the name of the line, which I and my fellow commuters already knew.

Most of the people standing on Platform 1 opposite were strangers to me and there was one woman standing directly across from me, looking down the tracks as though her stare would make the train arrive sooner. She turned her head to look around and caught me looking at her. She looked back for a moment and, unimpressed with her view, returned to her silent calling for the train, attempting to drag the carriages into the station by sheer force of will.

Her light yellow blouse was covered by a crocheted shawl, with layers of maroon and raspberry, a combination of colours I had never thought to put together, with the fabric draping down to reach the knees of her pale trousers. She belonged to the school of thought where flicking one's hair was very important, and she did so every few seconds, either unhappy with a new hairstyle or impatient at the train's continuing refusal to arrive immediately. She held a book in her hands, fingers interlocked around the spine from which a silver metal bookmark peeked.

Although her clothes were unremarkable at best, and her eyes darted around too quickly for me to appraise them, there was nonetheless a quality about her which captured me for that moment. I've heard it said that people have auras, and perhaps that was her quality: that she could project an air of confidence, allure or attraction around her which drew gazes and attention. Some atmospheres are electric, some may be magnetic, but her pose was not unbreakable or commanding, but a simple appeal: you could know me, you already know me.

Her vigil ended as the train drew in and she stepped into the carriage. As her train drew away, my train came in and I thought no more about her during my journey, looking instead at advertisements for insurance and vitamin supplements. People entered and left the carriage at every stop and I glanced over them as they moved, speculating about their histories and hidden lives, creating small unwritten and unspoken stories for myself to occupy the time in the grey tunnels and loudspeaker stations. The train pulled into my destination and I left, taking the stairs to the concourse two at a time and navigating my way through the main terminus, dodging carelessly dragged suitcases and someone's elderly relatives meandering to their platform.

Turning out from the station and onto the street, I walked towards the coffee shop and saw the woman from Plaform 1. There was no possible way in which she could have been there. Her journey was in the opposite direction to mine, our trains had only been separated by a minute or so, and there were no stations along her way that would have allowed her the time to be walking in the opposite direction to me past the coffee shop near my workplace. As we got closer to one another, my stare followed her, almost guiding her steps along the street. She looked over at me briefly and I thought I could see a flicker of acknowledgement before she continued beyond me and turned into a different street.

For a moment
There is only the sound of breathing in the room. I stare at the ceiling, looking at the shapes and colours which form behind my eyes, traced across the plain whiteness of the paint. I've been awake and unmoving for half an hour or so.

You lie next to me, asleep, apart in a separate world. Your eyelids flutter occasionally as though you are batting them at an imaginary suitor. Every night you leave me and each morning you return, with fresh news or a new story to tell, a yarn to spin over hastily-drunk half-cups of strong coffee.

Through the blinds, there is a light somewhere, but it's faint. I can see it from where I'm lying down, and when I strain my eyes, narrowing them to help me focus, I can't make out what is there, other than whiteness. I can almost feel the light at times, not as a warmth but as a presence.

A sheet lies twisted between my knees, thrown down by my restlessness. Where you sleep, the bedclothes are even and pristine; when my eyes grow heavy and blackness slips over me, you stay silent, static. Perhaps that's when you leave me, returning to climb into cold, untouched sheets before I wake.

There is small rain on the skylight, tentatively dripping down onto the glass. The blue I see through there is being replaced by grey and I can feel an imaginary chill across me, pins and needles from a bed of soft nails. The cream-coloured pillow under me rustles as I move and I hold my breath to reposition myself, hoping that you can't hear me.

If I turn my head on the pillow to look at you, your profile rests resolute, face turned upwards to the ceiling and sky beyond. Your lips are slightly apart, as you are whispering to me in your other life, and I can make out the individual lines across the lipstick-scribbed skin.

The shape of your body underneath stationary sheets is shrouded and I can trace my memories of you down those curves and bends, remembering light fingertips across flesh which responds. The tiny breathing sounds are being muffled now by the jumping droplets above, though when I strain to hear I can still make them out, like another pulse across the bed.

Watching you sleep next to me brings us closer together than conversations or held hands could ever do, and yet I lose you now. Wherever you go when you leave makes me envy your nighttime paradise, more so when I can never recall my own midnight journeys away from here.

For a moment, your eyes open and you know.