a breeze, hardly more. the curtains hung. the window, the window, and a breeze slipping in. she hardly noticed. the curtains on either side. she hardly noticed and yet she turned her head. a breeze, and the scent of roses filling the room. the curtains ruffling, as if some ghost stirred beneath them. her suspicions answered by a slip of the cat’s paw. she had been drooling onto her pillow. awoken by roses, her pillow damp. she stood and walked towards the window, startling the cat. the shadows struck by curtains rustling, and the cat streaming from the room. the roses evaporating, the window clogged with a breeze. her blue eyes, bright. her blue eyes look out beyond the window. while she slept the day also sped away. she can barely make out the figures of the trees lurking on the lawn. moonlight gliding on the lawn. there is no other garden, no other blue; she turns, and returns to bed. on her pillow, spit congealed, and the shape of her body wrought in sheets. here in the secrecy of the room. she has used the blue sparingly. she has sought not to disturb the cat. she drew a breath, going deeper. the roses like taffeta in her mouth. she was pale, her blue eyes bright and suspicious. there was a dent in the pillow. there was the window, framed by two long panels of fabric like a girl’s lank hair. a dent in the pillow, and a cat’s whisker on the windowsill.