The breeze lifts a plume of fag ash into the air, which settles, eventually, on the rug. A nest of human hair has been stuffed into a glass, another lurks in the corner; a Rizla skitters across the floor to join it. Red wine is crusted into mugs like cracked mud. It reminds Mary of Hampstead Heath and the hot, dry summer.
Flies hang above the sink where twisted pinched lime wedges sit. The kettle is filled and set down; Mary hears its comforting click between the tap’s drips. She sits up, looks round, peels her elbows off the table.