he rushes into the tastefully decorated apartment, forgetting to shut the door. she is sitting on the window sill. eyes blood-red. smoking a joint. “couldn’t this wait? i was with my publisher.” she giggles. “why?” hands akimbo. she giggles “my mind,” she slurs. he notices a bible and a red book beneath it on her laps. he looks around and notices a packed bag on the central table. she drags on the wrap and giggles. he is staring at her with a dead-pan heart. she knows the look. she’s seen it everyday since she moved in with him three months ago. she turns and pushes the window frame upwards – flicking the remainder of the joint out the window. she sits further back on the window sill her toes off the floor – she’s almost on the outside. she rocks forward. this move forces the two books to drop from her laps, the red book is the proof-copy of “how to drive your lover to suicide,” his latest novel. “you had this?” they both stare at the red book. “really!” she snorts. it’s 17:59. she swings backward. she rocks forward. she swings backward. blackout. the street lights are out too. he dashes to the window – nothing. “angela.” no response. thirty seconds later the generator in the up-market apartments rattle to life. she is gone. there is a note where her packed bag was, “be not over much wicked, neither be you foolish: why should you die before your time?”