Some Are, Some Aren't 8.

This windscreen is wet; her view of cars across the bridge is not clear and she feels like she is squinting through a loosely woven cardigan.

She can hear the rain that is causing this wetness; it plays softly on the roof of the car where she sits, warm for the moment and still full from her visit to the café.

She ate braised honey pork and chose a creamy chocolate orange desert.

The car is a mess, the floor a scramble of dirt, grass and broken crisps; the seats are stained, the dashboard dusty and a jumble of half read newspapers, sandwich wrappings and cinema tickets cover the back seat; an opened lipstick tube lies on the front seat.

The car is a mess, she is too but she is sleepy.

She will sleep in this car.

But first she will drive out of the city.

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