Fall

We lean this far out of the window, smoking at some precarious angle.

Because of the babies:

"You can smoke roll-ups or spliff in the kitchen, but not filter cigarettes" says Aisha, with some accompanying authoritative gesture. Her brother narrows his eyes.

It's hot and the room is this thick soup of scent: babyshit and hairspray, milk sugar, dust and alcohol. Outside is still and heavy, this sick orange urban night. It's high, you'd think it would smell better. It doesn't. The smoke from the cigarettes seems like air-freshener, or something.

I breathe through my mouth.

Aisha's brother spits slowly thickly drips from his bottom lip; we watch it fall silent and eerie

Alex says:

"Would you survive  - I mean, if you jumped now - would you die, or just smash stuff up really bad?"

Aisha's flat is on the eleventh floor.

We lean out even further, look down speculatively.

(Our cigarettes are from Pakistan, we inhale and they crackle and fizz like a bonfire of Autumn leaves)

Aisha's brother looks up from the ground below.

"Try it" he says, seductively.

I like Alex, but for some fleeting moment I like the idea of him plummeting eleven floors onto a fucked up concrete courtyard a whole lot more.