A tiny orb sits between my teeth and closed lips. I used to struggle to balance its precarious weight. Not anymore.

She hasn’t been notified of her death. So, she continues to appear at events.

Roseburn delighted in spreading rumours about its residents. “How does a neighbourhood do that?”

I used to watch her glide through the balcony, sit on the swing for hours, walk through the open verandah, planting blades of grass to break my fall.

After a while the taste starts feeling familiar. It carves a groove in your tongue and sits there and becomes family. Nagging you.

Angie found a scribbled note in the bathroom stall of a London Weatherspoons and it read, “I wish there was a version of me that walked back in there, kissed you and has not yet stopped”. Angie wished it was for her.