I
Midnight, the witching hour. Between the park gates and the old church I see him: the dark clothes, the arrogant stance, the pale face with (I presume) watchful eyes. He's waiting, he must be, for someone, some thing.
There's a moon, one or two days away from being full. The moon, our moon, the one that’s always up there whether visible or not, tinged with yellow and (is it really? yes it is) – pink.
A car speeds by.
Slow down, you’re gonna kill someone!
The driver’s dark head seemed unaware of the waiting-watching man’s presence, who has just sparked a cigarette and is blowing out the smoke, upwards, heavenward, towards the moon, our moon, tinged with yellow and pink.
The spire of the old church looms large and dark – eerie – and beyond the foliage that softens its left side, I see the orange-gold of the town's night-lights. Another car grunts by.
It's midnight, the witching hour. Between the park gates and the old church I see him.

II
His right hand has delved into an inside pocket. What’s he searching for? The hand emerges holding something. He looks at it. What is it? He blows smoke on it. He coughs. Is it a packet of cigarettes he’s holding? No. It looks thinner, like a piece of card. Perhaps it’s a photograph. Yeah, that’s it, a photograph. He’s looking at it, studying it. Do I sense … love?

III
A tinny melody, muffled, the theme of a well-known TV show. I can’t remember what. It’s the A Team. No it’s not. Something else. Something more recent. But what’s making the music? His phone. Of course it is.
Hello, he sez. Ah-ha, he sez. Right-o, he sez. And clips the hand-piece shut.

IV
It’s past midnight, but still we're in the witching hour. One o’clock brings it to an end. Or at least I’m thinking so.

V
Headlights. A car rolls up. A red car. Quite a big one. I recognize it. Who’s in the driving seat? Is it … I can’t tell. He gets in. What are they talking about? Who is that he’s with? Is it a girl? Better not be! I can’t tell. The car moves away. I hear music. But wait, what’s that, on the pavement where he was standing? Looks like the thing he was holding – the piece of card, the photograph.
I scuffle out of my hiding-place and run over. I pick it up. It is, a photograph, of him, and me, at my house, taken last month, on my brother's birthday. Now why did he do that? Drop it. Why? Does he not love me? Of course he does. Then why has he burned a hole in my forehead with the cigarette? Why?

VI
I searched the pavement and there it was, the butt of the cigarette he’d been smoking. I picked it up and put it in my mouth. I sucked it, chewed it, I bit it. – I laugh. Listen: ha ha ha!
This was the moment. The moment I discovered my teeth. If he can play around then so can I!
I tightened my ponytail, put on some extra lipstick, freed the top buttons of my blouse and headed … (where did I go?) – oh yeah – to his house, his back garden, to spy on his bedroom window. The night was young.