She counts the beds she has laid upon – the ones in cellars, the ones in hotels, the ones made of wood, the ones made of metal, the broken ones, the big ones, the ones so small she had no room at all, the ones upon which her dog used to lie, the ones with a view, the ones where she had to hang her head off the side to see a little bit of sky, the ones where she kissed men, the ones where she wrote letters and cards and kissed no-one at all, the ones where she wanted to die and the ones where she didn’t. And this bed, now, the mattress slightly bowed with the weight of the bodies it has trafficked through the nights, its frayed cotton covers greasy in patches and a reminder of the cheapness of life. But it is her favourite, for thank God, she cannot leave it at all.
