Nima One Sunday Afternoon 1967

Nima lights a cigarette. Her mother has just left after the row and left her expensive perfume in the air of the side room off of the locked ward. Even if she passed wind it would smell of a bouquet of flowers. Nima watches her mother's car go up the drive and out of sight. Out of sight, but not out of mind. She inhales deeply and angrily. Always has the last word, that passing shot across the bows. Always the same rows. What will the neighbours say. Who gives. Outside the room shouting from the crazies. One looks in, nose pressed against the glass. She doesn't see, her back is turned. She exhales and watches the smoke twirl. She wants a fix and a shag, but has only the cigarette. She is on medication to help her off the drugs, but nothing to help with the nighttime starvation. Although even the pump night nurse seems desirable at least in mind. She inhales again, but calmer, letting thoughts of her mother float off like dark balloons across the blue sky. She exhales with a deep sigh.