I never actually dissected a frog in biology class. But I think the process is quite the staple in American media. The splayed frog, limbs out stretched and pinned in place. White lily belly sliced open and prised apart. Glistening jewels inside still wriggling and warm. The brave few revelling in the gore. Cackling in the face of the gruesome task. The more sheepish ones edging from pale to tinged green faces. The loud ones squealing and screeching like pigs, making a spectacle of their disgust and horror. 

Rolling my tongue and resting my thumbs

Winter’s ghostly footsteps echo in this hollow house. Manifesting in sodden sheets, deserted of frost. As the moonlight spilt in through the windows, the dust coating the banister glittered. My feet padded down the stairs. The wood was cold and gnarled to the touch. I wished to soak myself in the moonlight, to bathe in its majesty. I reached the front door and pressed my head against the cool windowpane. Upon exhaling, my breath painted the glass in steamed condensation. Outside, the evening looked foreign. Branches carved through the night, adorned with shadows, cloaking them as threatening misers. The thick black velvet swam in and out of their outstretched hands, dipping between boned fingertips. I gazed longingly beyond the glass. Aching to be part of the scene before me. A chill climbed the base of my spine. My skin prickled in the wake of the icy air that danced around me. Bleeding through the battered wooden slates the door consisted of.

As I sat in that room. Feeling the bobbled carpet holding my toes. The breeze from the open window gently caressing my neck. I realised how precious such moments of lonesome serenity truly were to me. The night porter creaked above me. His movements bleeding through the old floorboards. It was as though the floor itself moaned and wheezed in exhaustion. Cars outside whirred past. Occasionally the squeal of breaks and the revving of engines cut through the monotonous droning of the evening’s song. I wondered whether any of the blurred figures sitting in their vehicles could see me. Saw the top of my red hair poking out, only just in view. I sat there, nestled between the window ledge and the single chair. He left this chair by the window to sit upon while smoking cigarettes. My mind’s eye could always picture him there. His tousled hair hid his face as he hunched over, crafting a new rollie.

When I was 16 I began working as a waitress in the local pub. Carrying wobbling trays of sparkling pints to eager recipients. Smiling faces with round red noses, their grins cutting through the thin veil of smoke that surrounded them. Thick, hearty laughs were carried through the pub windows. Overthrowing the low, buzzing hum of conversation.

“The face that launched a thousand ships”

I nod my head along mindlessly to the melody flowing from my headphones. My feet following each other, knowing this familiar journey all too well. I snake my way through the barriers, tapping my Oyster, recognising the beep just moments before the barriers wheeze open. I slip my card back into my battered wallet and look up. He's there. Again. Of course he is. He perches on sodden cardboard. Face hollow and mute of expression. He holds out cupped hands toward all who pass him.

She had this unruly, black, wiry hair. It fought against conforming to any kind of style and crept in curls around her face. She was only slight in stature, olive-skinned with brown smudges below her eyes. I don’t ever remember seeing her uniform without a stain or a hole or rip. She seemed wild. Untamed.

I find myself yearning for your attention.