Henry

Henry exudes shower-fresh optimism, sitting, as she always does at this time of day, on the top step. She lights a cigarette and blows smoke rings at her open book, something about Wilde that will impress the beautiful lecturer next term.

Taking a mouthful of tea, she spits most of it at me a second later, laughing at the use of 'gay' in its archaic form. Henry often laughs out loud at things she reads. I don't always ask why, it's none of my business. She finishes her tea and takes a mouthful of mine. This is apparently fair, as I am to blame for her monstrous habit and since she is now also addicted to kalamata olives because of me, it's the least I can do. She finishes her cigarette too, flicking the butt down towards the bins where, secret tidy person that she is, she'll throw it away next time she is passing.

Only the attic windows of the houses opposite and the tops of the trees are still in the sunshine. Henry closes her book, stretches her legs, kicks off her flip flops. She rests her chin on my shoulder and asks me what I am writing.