Layers by Vivienne Bailey

Pile upon pile. Blue jeans, denim-hard and crunchy. A red sweater, unravelling. Trackies, black-fleeced.
Add silver trainers, white-laced.
White business shirt, pristine-creased. Fanta-orange tie. A Warehouse T-shirt, ginger fur sprinkled.
Work overalls, darkest of grey, two pairs of dress trousers, one nut-brown, the other, creamy-fudge.
Arms and legs, intermingled. Like her and Ethan, once upon a time.
Higher and higher it grows. A tower of sad love, discarded dreams.
Ellen flicks the lighter close, sees fingers of red circle his jeans, slowly lick the sweater, rush to the T-shirt.
She waits. Now a furnace of lost innocence, out of control. She draws the phone from her pocket, dials 111.
“Fire, please.”


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