Faythe Roe.

one morning, as i lay sleeping

She was in a small studio looking out onto the cobbled street but she didn’t see him.

Sitting at a table, painting, she didn’t look up.

Her skin was still tanned from time at the beach and her dress was the colour of the sun that had touched her. Her hair, as always, was as black as the night and long.

He entered the building, intending to say hello but found himself on a subterranean floor and the only access was through the small window of a toilet that doubled as a lift.

The lift was fast, uncontrollably fast and he inadvertently vomited. Maybe he had been nervous too.

He couldn’t see her like this, his clothes stained and wet so he hid in an upstairs corridor with his shame.

When she came to the door she did not find either.