i walk barefoot on slate, mice run around about. she sleeps above me, nestled in a odd mix of sadness and delight: she has a son, her husband has betrayed her. it is like walking on ice, feet pressed firmly with toes splayed, the night hints at winter but i am not cold. she wept into my hands and i shivered and shook, cigarette now dangling from dry lips, hearing the distant echo of a car making a tight turn.