Shelley slid from a tumbling dream into an unsteady consciousness confused by the darkness in her room that must be leaking in from the darkness outside that was covering everything but the lit windows held up by the nearby buildings. So many windows, so many neighbours up early, before the birds, and then there was an orgasmic rush of relief that this day was all hers and she could collapse back into sleep except there was a disconnect between now and last night. She toyed with the frayed ends. Last night, last night…yesterday the studio…she left the studio late with Bob and Pete, and they went for a drink and Pete suddenly wasn’t there and then she woke up in that dirty little flat. She groped around in the sheets for her phone. The screen was bright and made her eyeballs ache and within the glare the clock hands read nine thirty and a bit. She remembered the walk home. That Bob was a dog. She wanted to sleep. She needed to pee. Shelley climbed out of bed and set the taps to a steady stream and sat over the basin with her eyes closed, trying to stay within reach of sleep. Vivid images of Bob, her righteous public beating of his puffy face, cartoon wounds and dismemberment.