The impossible good fortune of being eighteen.
In love. In love. Unrequited.
Sunshine. Possible pub.
Me, him, and our friend watching us gravitate to one another.
Laughter. Bulletproof.
Busy not shopping. The square. The crowds.
The fountain. The birds.

We brush hands, neither flinches.
We glance shyly, I know my eyes tell him.

I am drifting, feel dancing behind my navel.

The pigeon flies into my head. I clatter to the ground staring at the sky, the shoppers feet. A beak mark in my forehead. ‘He’s never going to cop off with me now’.

A hand.

Lucy lives in Rutland with her husband and their two bonkers children. When not locating infinite amounts of plastic crap she works part-time and is perfecting the Venn diagram that includes every aspect of everyone’s life. In harmony, naturally. Lucy likes running (away, usually), is fond of cooking, food in general, dancing like an idiot and loves her friends to bits. Lucy fits in writing around everything else but dreams of it being the other way around. Find her on Twitter @Lucy999Neal