things move around

Sandra, an accountant, stands in the office kitchen, looking at the array of teas, her shoulders sloping despondently, her lips slightly apart, her hair and skin lustreless and sagging, like old upholstery; she pulls a squeaky polystyrene cup from its clingfilm tube, adds a teabag on a string, and runs the faucet on the hot water tank: all this despite her only being 23.

The reason she’s such a wreck is she’s been up all night, dreaming of Paul. She punishes herself with condensed milk and a sugarlump, and stirs the brew with a toothpick. She can’t stop thinking about Paul’s magnificent inky bouffant, his flashing opalescent eyes, his luxuriant sideburns. Paul.

He wants to see her for lunch today. Why? What does Paul see in me, she thinks, dropping the string into the cup (fuck!) Paul. Why do I feel like I’m on the edge of a black hole, spiralling hopelessly into an oblivion called Paul?