‘I wasn’t just bored. I’m having a really bad, shitty night. And sometimes when that happens I like to go for walks. So, I was passing the cul-de-sac anyways, and I feel like – I enjoyed talking to you. Before. And I saw from the street that the light was on in here. So.’

‘Yeah, OK. Yeah. That’s fine.’

‘OK.’

And then it was sort of painfully awkward, and neither of us knew what to do, so June got up and left. I’m not joking. She lifted herself off the couch, opened the side door, then shut it behind her.

A half a second later, though, there was a knock.

I smiled despite myself. Got up and answered.

‘Hi,’ she said as if we hadn’t already spoken, in some animated Valley Girl accent, and offered her hand to shake. ‘I hope this isn’t, like, a bad time, but I was passing by and was wondering if I could come, like, hang out.’

I took her hand in mine. It was warm despite the cold. ‘Oh, sure, come on in.’

‘Cool, my name’s June Copeland and I am, evidently, a complete weirdo.’

‘Yeah, I’m Sydney Whitaker, I’m … a bitch.’

She snorted with laughter and I followed suit. ‘OK,’ she said while we resumed our previous positions. ‘We’re cool, right?’

‘Yeah.’

‘So. Starting over. What have you been up to this fine evening?’

I decided it would be best to rewind to a point before Grief Counselling and Grief Therapy. And the ToD. ‘I was just, uh, watching a movie.’

‘What movie?’

‘It Follows.’

June smiled. ‘Ooh. Are you some freaky horror buff?’

Heat rushed to my cheeks. Suddenly I felt very self-conscious: hair up in a greasy ponytail, sweatpants with years-old stains, bare feet with toenails I hadn’t looked at in weeks, let alone clipped. And she was here, completely polished, like she’d done her makeup just to come and sit on the couch. ‘I take offence at “freaky”.’

‘Why?’

‘Because it’s a perfectly normal –’

‘No, I mean why do you like them? I can’t stand being scared.’

‘I don’t know. I sort of just like to prove to myself that I can handle them. And I guess not much actually scares me any more.’

‘Do you think you’re desensitized or something?’

‘I mean, sort of. I guess I am.’

‘So weird. You don’t seem like the type.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I just picture, like, a goth.’

‘I am decidedly un-goth.’

‘What’s your favourite?’

‘Favourite horror movie?’

‘Yeah.’

‘You can’t – you can’t pick a favourite.’

‘You totally can.’

I smiled again. There was a lot of smiling. ‘I don’t know, I like different stuff at different times, I guess. OK, what stuff do you like? Let me judge you for that.’