Mary Rose Cook

Last night, I leaned on the window-sill in my room and smoked a final cigarette before bed. I looked out onto my quiet street and saw a woman walking in circles in the middle of the road. She wore a sleek black coat and a black pencil skirt and black, witchy boots.

She looked at each car that came along the street, and then we would both watch as it drove around her or forced her to step back onto the pavement.

It was freezing outside, so I stubbed out my cigarette and closed the window. I watched the woman walk away down the road, and then I had a sip of water, switched off the light, got under the covers and lay in the dark.