Avant-garde playwright.

Her skirt flaps around her knees as we stand on the top of the monument, her knuckles white as she grips the hand-railing tightly. It is a beautiful moment. I look past her pale shoulders and see the grey clouds in the distance, and let out an audible sigh. She looks over her shoulder at me, and smiles. The smile is genuine, and so is the emotion behind it. The lights of the night encapsulate her figure completely, like a cocoon, and there is such a frantic urgency with which the breeze moves about her, that it is hard to tell which is which and who is who. The dress she's wearing is so delicate it might remind one of gossamer, yet she does not show the slightest bit of discomfiture. The setting we find ourselves in mimics many of the films we have watched in the past week, but do not find this fact annoying. Yet. It looks like a natural and commonplace sight, but it is not. If I wrote a song about this moment, it would be the most sanctimonious one ever written. She is scared of falling, perhaps she has vertigo - I do not know, but watching her framed in the greyness of the landscape is titillating.

It would be a lascivious one too, if I told her I would be breaking up with her the next day, because she has the intellectual capacity of a needle.