Night Worker Her job, to mop out cubicles. Fifty-four pans to bleach, ten sinks to scrub. She hates it all— the hairs, the slime, the stink catching her throat. Tonight it’s Saturday and worse than usual. She stops, straightens her back and stares through a skylight at the stars. They remind her of a lad she was once in love with who tried to teach her the constellations when all she wanted was sex then fish and chips at Bob’s—those hot parcels soggy with beautiful vinegar an

She arrived one night, late. The landing window was open as if she’d blown in with the blossom. She settled herself on the seventh stair. I picked her up but she stiffened the way a baby does. I made to smooth her hair, re-tie her sash but a look stopped me dead. We went to bed leaving her staring into the hall. Next morning the post was frozen to the mat, milk smashed on the step. We crept about our little businesses, her eyes following, sparking like swords. I take advice,