Counting fairy lights, she slipped over her thoughts. The kettle whistles. Making porridge at one in the morning as her mother used to. She won’t eat it, but nothing is made for nothing. She keeps mixing and adding until the porridge doesn’t look like food anymore.
Morning. In real time. The moon lingers by the fish pond. She waves to it but it’s occupied. On this day she will wear her jeans, a shirt and trainers- materials for her new thoughts and touches and feelings.
Clicking thumb over finger he giggles at nothing. He looks at the porridge and then her but can’t see the moon. He eats the porridge, adding salt. It tastes like a feeling.
His eye twitches to see a field, twilight. The scarecrow melts in the fire and caramel catches on his lips. He kisses her nose, making her stop counting.
Real time. She appears at the top of the stairs, fresh in her new outfit like a doll popped from a box.
Twilight that time. His hand brushes her hair and she wishes she’d put on a jumper. Counting time before jumpers could become real again.


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