Night Insect.

On the other side of the window, down in the street, she dances.

Slight, clothed in black, twitching.

An exquisite insect.

A message – “you’re still there – sweet”.

On the other side of the window, up in her apartment, a cabinet.

Miniature creations, jewel like, inspired by the ocean.

“These were made by my mother, have you looked at them?”

He had, but he hadn’t really, so he did again.

She took one in her delicate hands, spun the top and placed it on the table.

It spun, opened like a flower blooming and a miniscule tin fish emerged.

When the spinning stopped she pulled the fish away on the thread of silk that held it and a figure of a fisherman emerged from the top and the fish was wound in and along with the fisherman disappeared into the spinning, closing flower.

Then he woke.