Yesterday there were like shiny tracks on her bedroom carpet. A slimy silver, a slivery trace. Slugs, I suppose. Her flat is decomposing, as she is. My skin itches when I’m there. A part of me is appalled by its unkemptness. Her smell still lingers but there is this sweetness too, and yet it isn’t sweet, not in the nice, golden-haired way. This is a tacky, sticky, unhealthy sacchrine smell – something man-machine, in-organic, not natural. What is it?
