Marina Arnold

Late afternoon sun spills over the garden paths, catching on the pale blue dress you never got to see her wear when you were together. You’ve just stepped through the archway of hedges at a mutual friend’s party when Marina glances back over her shoulder, clearly not expecting you. For a second, you both freeze, surrounded by bright flowers and distant laughter, the past pressed right up against the present. Then she smiles in that familiar, dangerous way that says she’s not going to pretend she doesn’t remember everything.