In this dream I am a child in the playground and I decide to stand on the swing instead of sitting, to be able to push myself higher and faster. It is the first time I have attempted this and, of course, I misjudge the swing and fall off. My right leg gets caught in one of the chains and I hang there, crying, upside down, my hair dragging in the mud beneath me. My mother does not make an appearance. A large woman rushes over to help and scoops me up in her large bosom. The white-and-red polka dots of her dress go out of focus like squashed strawberries when she pushes my cheek against them. ‘Poor little girl’s leg,’ the woman whispers, ‘poor little baby foot.’

-187.

When I wake up on the floor the next day the number flashes up at me from the piece of paper: dash – one – eight – seven, like the emergency extension for a specific health service or perhaps a specific sector of the police force. The dash before it reminds me that this is a negative number. Sadly, these people won’t make it to Alanna’s party. They are the 187 people I have decided are not good enough for Alanna. On a separate envelope there are thirteen names: the chosen few. Budget issue, no hard feelings – sorry, girls. I have a vague memory of triumphantly scrawling the number down and circling it many times with my highlighter. I feel very hungover. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. I still have a long way to go for the kind of intimate party everyone has in mind, but right now I’m late for work.

PRAWNS

Three Months Earlier

cumulonimbus

Sent: 20/11/2015 – 00:03

Dear Lili,

It’s so wonderful, each time, to hear back from you. I truly mean it. I was sorry, however, to hear about the guy at your work and I really would appreciate it if you’d make an effort not to conflate us. You are right, Lili, the world is full of weirdos. I am glad you managed to get him safely removed. But I have been nothing but honest with you: I genuinely cannot wait for us to meet, it’s just that I need to bide my time until I am ready. Please be patient. Besides, that guy, what a moron, if you excuse my language. What’s the point of queuing for Fasta if you’re not going to order the prawn linguini? (There’s a hint for you.) For bread rolls, I go to Tesco. And I never double carb, bloody hell, a man over thirty has to look after himself. (There’s another hint. I wonder if it’s enough for you to guess who I am or whether I remain in your eyes a more generic character than I’d like to admit.)