There’s something about winter rain falling on an empty street that reminds her about a time, years ago, when she would spend an hour carefully creating a façade of pale foundation and pitch black kohl in front of her bathroom mirror before stepping into a silk-soft ankle length black dress and lacing up the essential Doc Marten boots. She would always linger just one more moment to tie a strip of dark velvet ribbon around her vulnerable throat, and then it would be time to go.

Driving alone in the car, she would turn up the volume of whatever music was making its home in her heart that week: the Cure (she was secretly in love with Robert Smith, whose poetry spoke to her soul like no-one else’s ever had) or the Sisters of Mercy, No Friends of Harry, Joy Division, Fields of the Nephilim. Tortured lyrics a reflection of the thoughts dancing through her restless mind.

Late night and rain on city streets. Traffic lights flashing from amber to red and green and back again. Driving through alleyways, until she found parking a few blocks away from the hub of nightclub activity.

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Author guidance for This work

Fragments of semi-/autobiographical content from about 2002 - that I'm trying to turn into a narrative work. Will likely shift from autobiography into fiction once I find my direction with this material.

updated Jan 8 by coleman