Amethyst, expensive like a boxload of Godiva chocolates, is a teardrop sleeping in a silver cradle. On my wrist it blinks. My mother is in the living room, rustling through plastic bags, talking light with her aunt. Sleep stretches me thin until I am porous.

I don't sleepwalk. I sleepskip.

We were watching a funny show an hour ago. The people were trying to learn English. "Will you be my Valentine?" The words were put into rhythm. "Will you be my girlfriend?" Beat. Beat. "Will you be my wife?"

Everyone laughed and flowers were passed out. I ate my mother's uneaten cake with kiwis and cream then wandered off into my great-aunt's bedroom. Lethargic and heavy, I waxed nonsensical and decided enough is enough.

Hello to everyone. Especially you.

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