The robin perches in the heart of a brambly shrub.
Her life has been set to a soundtrack of slammed doors.
Our good-bye has a taffy-like quality. We say it and stand close, and after talking some more, repeating ourselves, we part slowly, the distance between us stretching by inches.
My first sight of her is the bike helmet she's still wearing, as she hunches over her phone, her upper body framed by a dark window.
She may not know who has sent her the note expressing thanks, but she's happy that someone has appreciated her efforts.
They've strung up a few lights to give an otherwise steely, soulless street some color.
The egg he cracks in a neat stroke, but the yolk plops on the floor.