She walked towards the fountain so that her skin caught at the mist before she could dip her head beneath the water and hold her breath. How light it was and much it tasted like sanctuary. She had never been baptised. Her thoughts mingled freely with the aged coolness of the stone bowl. The edge of the bowl caught at her throat and held her. She wanted to be grazed, caressed across her flesh.- but whose autograph would it be ? She wanted to be re-shaped. To become today just one special thing; a sculpture that would endure.
Beads of water ran down her neck and streaked at her blouse.Her back found snakes of sweat zig-zagging down to the top of her shorts. The heat clung to her legs and she scrunched up her eyes looking towards the house. The windows were open and someone was standing in a top room smoking.
George put down his glass and stopped to stare at this girl whose face was laced with sparkling reflections of the garden’s colours. He could see pink rose below an eyebrow. Yellow hibiscus across a cheek. Her hands were singularly long for a girl.Her fingers rested across her knees. The girl’s face made him think of the past. She dissolved this ordinary afternoon into these vibrant, shapely pieces, each with a memory – with a sense attached , all shaken out before him like a newly laundered quilt.