We’re standing at a junction.

It’s just here. We walk down, in the near distance the financial centre is busy leaning on itself. There’s traffic here, all over, the road doesn’t seem very wide. There’s this place then, the white fencing around a building site that seems huge. Other buildings peer sheepishly at it. Tourists align the fence, gazing at some pictures or literature there.

"It would make you dizzy to look," she says, and she points a hand at the clear blue sky. "I was up there, " she says. "All the way to the top. It was scary. I could feel it moving, you know, and I looked over and I wanted to get sick, really. Puke over the side. Jesus. It gave me a real headache as well. It’s … well. You have to be there. Paul was almost dancing on the edge, he terrified me. No, I didn’t enjoy that at all".

Yeah, I say. There’s builders in hardhats and hi-vis gear standing around. There’s city folk pushing by. There’s a grate in the road which spits up another wraith, briefly dancing with the traffic and disappearing. Imagine the ghosts here.

Lets go, she say. This is weird.

It fucking is, I say.

It’s summer, years ago, we’re in this room in a house that you live in. it’s a Sunday and there’s nobody moving in the house. Outside the sun glares in at us, and it touches the dust in the air. Dancing motes all gleaming all lit up and phosphorescent, hanging in the air, descending, like a constant curtain, like we were underwater and this is the consistency around us. I can see it, turning you into soft focus. You pull a light dress over your head, and it falls to the ground next to me. We are sitting on the the ground, our legs curled up towards us, there’s no music on, only the sounds of outside and our breathing. Your dress is on the floor next to me and I look at it’s pile, as if it were art or architecture, it fascinates me, how once it held your bones together. Kept your secrets intact. You’re nearly naked now, looking at me, the sun is coming through the window behind your head and your hair is illuminated around your face, as if you were painted there. As if you were art. I look at you, take you in, my hand reaches toward your breast. There’s no sound in the room, but for hiss of bated breath. I touch you like an implication. You say to me, what do you think you’re doing, and smile, but your eyes are lost behind your fringe. I’m looking at your body. I can’t think about what I’m doing, I say. I wouldn’t believe it was happening if I did. You’re a fool, you say. Okay, I say. I’m a fool. It’s summer, and quiet in the room.