We're meant to be cleaning. The old house is thick with dust and jammed with clutter; in this bedroom you can barely reach the canopy bed and she soon stumbles over a stack of Daily Telegraph's from the 1970s.
"You're not wearing very sensible shoes," I point out,
(more) gesturing to the red heels.
"I can take them off if you want," she says. I want to make a joke about that but my mouth has been sucked of saliva. She fumbles with the straps and then wiggles a free ankle. All her body is lithe, constantly in motion.
"I can't believe I'm spending a Saturday night doing this. Why are you here?"
"Same thing as you, placating your aunt." I'm shoving newspapers in a black bin bag, but in truth I'm not in too much hurry to leave.
"What's she got on you?"
I shrug. "Caught me knicking from her shop. This is how I'm paying her back."
"Hardcore," she says, only semi-sarcastic. "Jesus, I'm sweating already."
I look up, but I can't see any perspiration. She smells citrus clean and her hair sits undisturbed in a sleek mane down her back.
"I'm going to sit down," she carries on.
She parts the curtains surrounding the bed and I follow her in. It smells of mothballs but the feeling of being enclosed in the dark away from the rest of the world is delicious. There's something naughty about it, slacking off work in this secret enclosure, the same feeling as pinching sweets on a dare.
"You have newspaper ink on your nose," I tell her, squinting in the dark.
She is still for the first time. I do not breathe. I bring my fingers up to touch her skin, moving up to part her lips.(less)
