One of the birds shoots out of the tree.

Above and behind a window opens and a cigarette hangs out.

She says something that isn't really right but isn't really wrong. I'm not taking in their words any more, just their voices, trying to get a feel for whatever is going on between them. I'm imagining what it's like for them in this delicate situation, what I would say if it were me. She has that perfect upper-class accent, and she's using whatever upper-class tact that comes with it to navigate this. Style. They can't be together, but their voices are betraying them.

"No, it'll get cold!"
"Put a tut ahh put a-"

I'm trying to picture the scene inside, like I was trying to picture the scene in the tree.

There is a pause. She ashes her cigarette. It falls on me. It seems like the birds have stopped too.

Lift Analysis

It's

dusk

Picture

a heavy, heavy rain. a clear day.

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