Connecting the Dots

Once at a party I introduced myself. – Hi, I said, – Hi, I'm Sarah, Sally's daughter. But I'm not. I'm Sally. She's Sarah. I'm Sally, Sarah's daughter. I'm Sally. Sarah: 'Princess' from the Hebrew. derivatives: Sarey, Salley, Sal. I'm living at home with her again. The thing with Simon lasted around eight months, I think. No, not think, know. The whole thing only lasted that long from start to finish and here I am back again. Just her and me. In my old bedroom again and everything pretty much the same: my books back in their shelves above the desk, my pillow back under its lacy bedspread, clothes folded neatly and where they should be. I've taken down the print, the Renoir she gave me for my eighteenth and put up the photo Simon bought instead. It's a little bit smaller, though, so all around it there's a frame of faded pink paint. If I lie flat on my back and stare straight ahead I can see it from my bed. The black and white Paris scene, with its thin black frame and the extra frame in palest pink. Apart from that, though, everything's pretty much the same.