She wasn’t there when I next visited. Thankfully. Never are. Her housemates and I, we ate and drank and played games and I got bored and left. I text Ellen. I’m back again the next week, by chance. Another home for another memory. We do the same. Forget the everyday, breathe the surreal. Speak the language of immaturity and marvel at the glamour of debt. Wake up to stale bread and drink warm wine. Bathe in mouldy showers and sleep on our mate’s sofas. And so I left because everything got boring again. And as I slipped past zombie and zombie’s friend she is sat in the corner looking down at a book. Her eyes stay still and I wander past. I didn’t even realise she was there. Easily done. Done before. Ironic. I laugh.