The hand in warmth, the head hypnotic, she arcs. She's certain that there's a spark, going up brick by brick. She feels that the world is with her. She's finally one. No one is out to get her. She has one aim. The figure 8, the geometric circles. Sharp edges have never been a favourite with her. Uneven and loose. She has long fingers which play the piano and cello. Rhythmic and occasionally on the same plane, but never boring, she brings it on herself. She is ready before it happens. She is content. "Why," she asks herself, "Why is it that I can never experience this zeal with people?"
The sun is shining, the birds are chirping. Everything is the way it should be. The scent of lavender floats in through the open window and she slowly dozes off to sleep.
Lemon, juniper, cinnamon and orange. Basil and cheese. Warm crusty bread and butter. The sun, bathing her in the warm rays. The cottage where she lives is a summer heaven.
The oak door to the small house opens. A tall man walks in. In h