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A Postcard From My Writing Retreat

I twirl between beds like a vengeful Goldilocks. I have an hour or two during the trips to town, tutorials and tea. I try on dresses, squeeze my feet into shoes, paint my face with make up that isn't mine. I find the divorcee's one carat diamond earring on the side of the sink and go to her room, playing hide and seek until I have a matching pair. She thinks it will turn up when she gets home. It won't, I might. I put my name into the Doctor's mobile. I laze a soft hour in his University rugby shirt texting myself from his phone. I tuck a torn condom wrapper in his dirty washing. A glittering gift for his wife. I take a plastic fan of all your cards to the High Street cashpoint each night. I am a crazed gambler who always wins. The passports will come in useful. So easy to sneak into my bag as they hug and pat and snap outside. When I've left the warm snuggle of your bed. I'll tuck in the edges, tweak the curtains, drop the latch on your door. On Monday night I did the dog walker. Wednesday the village widower. Tonight you. Dog walkers are the body finders of this world, not the bodies. The widower will lay undiscovered for weeks. You, beautiful and bloodless with my darlings double prong will be found soon. The rest of you - don't take comfort that you have seen my children.The smiling pictures were of strangers. Emails you send will bounce. You think you'll have my picture from the group shot. You will not. Remember me. I will not remember you.

Story by:

Yasmin Murgai

1 November 2013