41

It was morning. I lay in bed looking up at the ceiling.

I could lie there forever, but Frank would not come. I could go out and spend all my money buying clothes, but Frank would not come.

And yet I still loved clothes.

My nightdress was pretty. It was deep blue, decorated with lace and net at the top and with a band of lace at the hem. June had said that it was a nightdress fit for a ball.

I wondered if I ought to buy a smart umbrella.

Or I could buy a bottle of gin.

The ceiling was rather grey. It needed distempering.

Frank had been in this room, but he would never be in this room again.

I pushed back the covers and swung my legs out of bed. I sat on the edge of the bed.

It was a lovely nightdress, but I was not a real woman.

I said, ‘Frank.’

There did not seem any reason to get up. I got back in and pulled the covers up. I closed my eyes. I thought that I would like to stay in bed for the rest of my life.

I slept.

When I awoke I felt hungry.

I got up and got dressed.

I put the kettle on.

I buttered a slice of bread. When I had it buttered I held it on the palm of my hand and threw it upwards. It stuck flat to the ceiling.