The terrace has a clothes line that can’t be seen in the dark. All of us walked through it and winced a little.

Somewhere far in the distance, we see smoke from a refinery or a factory or some such. We stand at the edge and watch it, our hands stuffed in our pockets, hoods covering our ears. It is cold; a lot colder than we are prepared for, but not so much that we can’t stand outside. The night is pretty much starless and what we see in the sky is what we wish to see, patterns from our mind.

He tells us a story from his childhood –pointing out places and locations in adjoining houses to make it real. It works to some extent because when he takes me by my wrist to show me where exactly he saw the disappearing figure in white, I suddenly don’t want to see it.

We listen to music from a phone; favourite songs and songs that mean something within. This always happens. The buzzed feeling always lends itself to feeling more vulnerable than you’d like to feel. We hum along, then sing with no inhibitions until our throats feel ripped.

We stumble down to fall asleep, the dark sky watching our backs, glad and disappointed at the same time.