We lay side by side, nestled in the dry mattress of a mound of grass clippings, staring up at a nuclear sun. She pulled off her sneaker, holding her foot up to the light until her bones turned black against the bright orange of her skin.

She told me; ‘I think you should kiss my foot.’ I looked up at this thing, smelling of sweat and rubber, and passed. She licked the palm of one hand and grabbed a handful of dry grass with the other.

‘One of these is going in your pants…. choose wisely.’


Earlier that day, before we’d become possessed under this haze, she’d ranted about a recent movie star suicide. She said it was weird how people cry for the famous, but they’ll pass by a newspaper article about a man accidentally minced inside some machinery, reduced into red matter whilst doing a job they probably hate. She asked; isn’t that more relatable?

I told her nothing could be relatable when everything – euphoric, tragic, mundane – is a random event. When every decision, from walking to a shop or picking socks to wear, might not be a conscious process. “Meaning isn’t predictable. It’s interpretation.”

Her eyes flashed. ‘Is that so…?’


“Okay” I said. I sat up, grabbed her ankle and planted a kiss on her toes.

“Now…” I gestured towards the licked hand, “…you owe me.”

‘Oh no’ she smiled. ‘I told you one of these hands was going in. I never specified which one…’