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Sally walks out onto the balcony, lights up, breathes smoke into the cold air and gazes at the cars below - they're all automated now; the politicians citing health and financial benefits.

Who can argue against a photograph of a four year old lying in the middle of the road?

Ted is inside, lunching on pizza while watching an old movie; the beers lining up like soldiers on the table, waiting to cause trouble. He misses being behind the wheel.

London is tense. Commuters on tube trains are told to 'mind the gap' but no one talks about the divides that really matter.

She flicks the butt off the ledge, watching it drop like Ted's pension. There's going to be trouble, all right.

Walking inside, Sally scoops up the cans and dumps them in the recycling bag along with her old dreams. They'll crawl back out, of course - they always do.

The film's in black and white, conjuring a nostalgia for a world they've never known. Sally leans forward, kisses Tim.

'Not now,' he says, pushing her away. He passes her the goggles and then returns to his beer and his fiction.

Sally walks into the bedroom, shuts the door, dims the lights, and slips off her clothing. In bed she attaches the goggles and switches them on. It lasts eight minutes.

When she is done, Sally wanders back onto the balcony. She is looking for a cause. Carefully, a steadying hand on the railing, she squats over the side.

A golden waterfall cascades down onto the cars below and all the while Sally grins like a child.

Story by:

Rupert Dastur

23 March 2016