On the night of Ash Wednesday, pangs of hunger tossed me from one side of the bed to the other, denying me the sleep I yearned for. Morning promised the scant supplies I had in the cupboards: an ancient can of beans; a couple of eggs I had saved for a special occasion. 

I would walk the streets of London, walk until I was blissfully lost, without any sense of space or direction, impossible, I thought, for those born there.

The day I passed my hair color exam in beauty college, I smoked a cigarette with another girl on my lunch break. The resulting dizziness accompanied me for the rest of the day. The only thing stronger was the yellow of her hands.

‘Where have you been lately?’ I asked, desperate to avoid any inquisition into my own status. Luckily she was happy to talk.

‘…first baby was born legs first. Swear I thought I wasn’t going to make it and they’d cut me into pieces to get him out. Second died the minute I pushed it out. Third is still around. Have to defend myself in court if you can believe it. Mothering rights. Fucking outrage. After that one couldn’t stand another. Pissed it off with blood in the toilet. Yeah it’s been a busy few weeks.’

The cigarette and her stories made me feel sick. During class I caught myself in a mirror. Gasped at the sallow face that stared back. I went to the toilet to vomit, holding my hands under the cold-water tap. It was the only time I could remember English separated taps serving a purpose. I stared at the dirty glass, judging the girl in the mirror. 

Phones are scary. One feels the urge to hurry, to get the words out as quickly as possible, even with all the distractions around: the pizza delivery bike veering ever closer; the bird shit you swerve to avoid on the pavement.

I hope the gift I sent found him safely. I imagined its route, across the Atlantic and the whole country until reaching him out west. 

I remember reading his childhood story, of how he’d gone as far as he could on his bike and the streets were named after fruits, and he rode and rode until he got lost and beaten up, and then got beaten up by his father for having been beaten up.

I ride my bike through streets named after trees, hoping they would soon blossom into fruit streets and we would cross in time and space. There were lindens, pines, chestnuts and cypress' streets. I rode through the bird-cherry, alder, ash, fir, and willow until they narrowed, with just ten or so houses on each side. My streets were empty. I didn’t pass other riders, only a few girls with prams who strolled and smoked on the pavement while babies looked to the sky with gloomy eyes.

I loved his films. I watched it on my twenty-fifth birthday. I found a brown bunny, a symbol for me (the name of his film), on the street, my height, made of plastic. A friend and I carried it across town and placed it in the yard with a note: ‘My name is the Brown Bunny and I am the most beautiful film ever made.’ Later on some students took it and dumped it in the river. It’s probably floating in the Atlantic by now.

On the night of Ash Wednesday, pangs of hunger tossed me from one side of the bed to the other, denying me the sleep I yearned for. Morning promised the scant supplies I had in the cupboards: an ancient can of beans; a couple of eggs I had saved for a special occasion. 

I would walk the streets of London, walk until I was blissfully lost, without any sense of space or direction, impossible, I thought, for those born there.

The day I passed my hair color exam in beauty college, I smoked a cigarette with another girl on my lunch break. The resulting dizziness accompanied me for the rest of the day. The only thing stronger was the yellow of her hands.

‘Where have you been lately?’ I asked, desperate to avoid any inquisition into my own status. Luckily she was happy to talk.

‘…first baby was born legs first. Swear I thought I wasn’t going to make it and they’d cut me into pieces to get him out. Second died the minute I pushed it out. Third is still around. Have to defend myself in court if you can believe it. Mothering rights. Fucking outrage. After that one couldn’t stand another. Pissed it off with blood in the toilet. Yeah it’s been a busy few weeks.’

The cigarette and her stories made me feel sick. During class I caught myself in a mirror. Gasped at the sallow face that stared back. I went to the toilet to vomit, holding my hands under the cold-water tap. It was the only time I could remember English separated taps serving a purpose. I stared at the dirty glass, judging the girl in the mirror. 

Phones are scary. One feels the urge to hurry, to get the words out as quickly as possible, even with all the distractions around: the pizza delivery bike veering ever closer; the bird shit you swerve to avoid on the pavement.

I hope the gift I sent found him safely. I imagined its route, across the Atlantic and the whole country until reaching him out west. 

I remember reading his childhood story, of how he’d gone as far as he could on his bike and the streets were named after fruits, and he rode and rode until he got lost and beaten up, and then got beaten up by his father for having been beaten up.

I ride my bike through streets named after trees, hoping they would soon blossom into fruit streets and we would cross in time and space. There were lindens, pines, chestnuts and cypress' streets. I rode through the bird-cherry, alder, ash, fir, and willow until they narrowed, with just ten or so houses on each side. My streets were empty. I didn’t pass other riders, only a few girls with prams who strolled and smoked on the pavement while babies looked to the sky with gloomy eyes.

I loved his films. I watched it on my twenty-fifth birthday. I found a brown bunny, a symbol for me (the name of his film), on the street, my height, made of plastic. A friend and I carried it across town and placed it in the yard with a note: ‘My name is the Brown Bunny and I am the most beautiful film ever made.’ Later on some students took it and dumped it in the river. It’s probably floating in the Atlantic by now.