I walked June to work under a layer of crumpled cellophane; her shadow was touching the hem of her coat while mine was restringing its guitar. I walked back followed by a tune. I didn’t feel like going out into the garden even though a complete stranger had knocked on the back door and instructed me in the art of lighting antique oil lamps using only diagrams scratched into a small piece of smoked glass. I searched in vain some time later for the same piece of glass with the aim of examining the signature. June had said she wouldn’t be back until dark (remembering it got dark earlier tonight) so I had plenty of time to climb the always well lit stairs in my head – knowing full well that I would never reach the top.