Photo by Emilie Bjork http://flickr.com/photos/emiliebjork/256661078/

It was June. Ruby was in my bed and Anna was still in my head. My parents were on holiday and I had avoided the call up with a rash of excuses about reading for university. It was to be the last great summer before our world was shattered – before the pieces scattered to the four corners of the country, scrabbling around in the sweaty haze of Freshers' week, trying to finagle friend from foe. Ruby was good in bed but in a studied way, as if she had swallowed a hundred issues of Cosmo, sex tips in a database at the back of her brain, her throat trained by practice with bananas in the quiet of her bedroom.

She knew nothing about passion and when I looked into her eyes, I saw my own reflection. I should have counted my blessings but you can only be expected to count so high. Life was like an Ikea kitchen – just a little too clean, just a little too perfect. I thought of the chaos that swirled around Anna. God, what a life that was.  

Ruby was asleep under the covers, a little whistle creeping from her nostrils as she dreamed. I couldn’t sleep. I turned on the clock radio and listened to the controlled tone of a newsreader – death, death, war, death, scandal. It was just creeping towards 5am and the broken streetlight outside my window was still blinking. I stuck my head through the curtains, resting my elbows on the sill and looked out at the world stained in sepia.
 
The milkfloat was clinking and humming its way down the road and in its wake I saw Anna, her shift dress pulled up above her knees, her heels clutched in her hands. Her mascara had run and her hair was a tower of tangles, a beehive in the morning after. She looked like she was crying but she could have been laughing. She looked like she was waving but she could have been drowning. Her boyfriend was nowhere to be seen. I wanted to run down and talk to her but I just carried on watching.

As the milkman wandered up the path to No.32, Anna crept up to the milkfloat, cradling a milk bottle in her arms like a baby. The milkman spotted her. He shouted something – his mouth contorting in rage – and tried to give chase, but Anna was off at a sprint and he was out of breath by his third stride, doubled over with a stitch, slumped beside his milkfloat. Ruby would have never been so brave.

I pulled on my jeans and an old t-shirt that had ripped slightly at the shoulder. There was still dew on the grass and it was cold on my feet as I ran across the lawn but I had to see her – in that moment it was the most important thing in the world – far more pressing than certificates, exams, girls called Ruby or the Middle East peace process. Nothing else mattered.

I ran along the asphalt, little stones pricking at the soles of my feet, my chest tight from lack of exercise. I turned into the alley way that led towards the new estates and there she was, sat with her feet touching the opposite wall, glugging down the milk, cream around her mouth. She looked up at me and smiled her widest smile but the red around her eyes told a contradictory story of smoke and sadness.

“Oh hi. I was just having my breakfast.” She giggled and offered me the milk bottle. I took it from her and sipped from it, the cold glass startling my lips.

“Let’s be proper friends again”, she said and pushed her cold hand up inside my t-shirt, her nails running gently down my back.