so I've done an essay-muse and I've done a little place.

people. people scare me.

She's 47. It's her house. She's angry about something you've done. You don't know if you care or not because you haven't decided yet whether you love her or not. She doesn't care if you love her. Or, at least, she won't allow love as a mitigating circumstance, or a reason for making a kinder judgement.

she wakes up. The dog, a black and white thing that's always moving, twisting, turning and looking for sheep, sits at the door to her room and barks at her. you turn and walk back to the dark doorway of the house. the hallway is pitch black after the squinting brightness of the sun.

what do you say to her? "can I get you anything?" "good morning"? "I'm leaving now." "that bloody goat is out again"

whatever it is, she's not going to reply.