She wears the perspective we wanted, but at an unpredicable slant, throwing her weight behind the day's open-ended hours, knowing that back at home cook would be licking the blood off the edges of the knives. As Alisha strides down to the harbour in her paisley liberty bodice, her horsehair petticoat and her red shoes with the hand-painted soles, the day winces and the piano on the quayside tilts dangerously, She has her damask donkeybag rivetted and double-laced, a bag that snaps shut just as easily and firmly as her jaw, forbidding the slightest intrusion.
Scenting malice on the morning's breath, Rex has retreated to the farside of the harbour, behind the clinking masts of the boats. Never one to wear his expected gender, today he is corsetted and ballgowned, as unexpected as a gloire de dijon rose amongst the quayside debris. But there is no hiding from Alisha; she hails him, reels him in. Today's capricious spoirit is calling her to play. As trouble comes in threes, he walks a curious waltz towards his wife, ready for whatever games she has in mind. He steps out across the apron of the harbour, falling for sequinned light. The cracked fountain flows across the stones, and as he leans in for her kiss, darkness comes down like an empty glass.
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