London in the summertime. The filth and the fury. I sit outside a café watching the throbbing rhythms of the Covent Garden crowds in the sweltering heat. I'm wearing a full filtration mask, mirror shades and hood pulled down low, rocking that retro futurist retro futurist eternally recursive style.
This is judged to be precisely the correct amount of 'out of step' with the current fashions to render me invisible. It took months to convince Mel to let me have time to walk the streets of this city on my own. But the gods know I need it.
Then I nearly jump right out of my own skin, leaving my pelt neatly wrapped for the skin traders.
Takes a few seconds to retroactively process the sensory trigger of this gut-wrenching panic.
It's a voice in my ear.
I'd recognise you anywhere, Glitch witch.
That fifth generation west Indian London burr sends shivers down my spine.
I turn to take her in, she's taken a seat at my table and the first thing I notice is her eyes. Yellow eyeshadow. Piercing dark brown eyes rimmed in heavy, stylised and crisp black. Jaunty grey hat with a thick black hat band, hair short and plastered to her head with something shiny and tough. Deep purple lip with just a glimpse of the slight gap between her front teeth. Yellow shirt buttoned up to her throat with wing tipped collar, black braces, high waisted black, white and grey tartan trousers, ankle swingers, showing off her immaculate yellow leather pie crust shoes.
Somehow, she is not sweating.
I have to forgive myself for the long seconds of silence. She is after all a Siren, highly skilled in the art of manipulating desires.
"Don't forget to hate me, sweetheart."
It's like she has thrown a switch. Suddenly I can think again.
"You've got some cara talking to me."
She looks at her feet, then glances back up, biting her bottom lip, deep purple lipstick almost black. Never sure if she's really contrite or it's all part of her art. Like does she even know herself?
"I never wanted..."
She trails off.
I want to hate her, but I just feel numb. We both sigh at the same time, long and slow. And we sit for a minute looking out at the masses. The shoeless underclass mingling with the corpo salarymen and the ultrarich. Circling each other like hungry sharks. Always hustling. While the world quietly burns.
And I think for a moment, she never had so much of a choice either. And maybe I had more choices than her.
"When we were in the roof garden. I..." Again, her sentence fades away. A ghost in daylight.
I'm stunned that she still thinks of that. I'm embarrassed when I realise how often I still do.
"So, you set out on the long con but then you had a real emotion. Am I supposed to celebrate that?"
"I'm not asking for anything."
Another long pause. We watch a lost child working the sushi stand crowd. Six-year-old dressed as a private school boy throwing a tantrum. His colleagues moving through the crowd taking purses and phones from the concerned people who gather to console him.
This city is not kind to people with real emotions.
"So, how come I never see you at school?" I ask her.
"Been avoiding the Gap. Taking time out, rethinking some things."
"I'm not your enemy." Each word comes out precisely, considered. Something has fallen into place.
"Not your friend, neither." It's as close to forgiveness as I can get.
She nods very slightly, her eyes glistening at me.
"I'll see you around." She replies.
And I almost forgive myself for staring at her as she walks away.