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Her hair is dark and wet from the rain. It hangs scented in great curling hanks before her shoulders. She wants you to cut it short. She smells of lavender and hyacinths, and oh how she laughs, her green eyes a-glitter. “Danny,” she sighs, and you seat her on the chair in front of you, easing your fingers through the dark tangles. She is glowing and haughty, she is thin and cold. Never did she have an ounce of weight on her. She raises her arms, the electric light catching on the crystals of her many bracelets, sending rainbow flickers around the rain darkened room. She smirks at you in the mirror; your hands come down to rest atop her head. By God, you love her – you, her only constant. She stretches round, catlike, drags herself upwards, and takes your head in her cool, trembling hands, pulling your lips together. She tastes of cigarette smoke and regret, and you’re helpless against it. She’s your all, your everything. She’s always relied on you, you’re her Mrs Danvers, her champion til the end. She pulls away.