She wakes feeling wrong. In the third drawer are sunglasses not worn since the 90s. They feel small, like lightness on her ears. The angles and the size are right for now.

She smells junk mail stuffed in the letterbox slot and is vaguely repulsed.

A man in a long navy coat is walking past. He's reading a book and walking at the same time, a faded old beagle on a leash in front. She knows him, she thinks, but can't remember how.

She's eating a mandarin on the way to tennis and wanting to finish it before the mulchy leaves in Northwood Street.

Gina says the wine evokes violence and plums.