Yours Truly

A knock on the door of Flat 1A. The girl walks slowly and deliberately across her candle-lit living room to answer it. She can barely see the man out in the corridor - a six foot-ish silhouette.

"Hi," he says. "I live upstairs, Number 3B. I've locked myself out, and I was wondering if I could maybe sit around here until the lights come back on? I can't phone a locksmith until after the power comes back on."

The girl eyes him up and down as her sight adjusts to the darkness in the hallway. He has dirty blond hair and grey eyes that seem to shine in the shadowy corridor. She hears a million and one seminars on rape replay in her mind, but then he smiles nervously and she swiftly steps aside to let him in.

"Do you not have a mobile?" She asks him once the door is closed behind them.

"It's in the flat," he gives her a look that says 'yes, I'm an idiot'. "Do you have one I could use, maybe?"

"Sorry," she gives him the same look, "the battery's dead. And I can't charge it until... well, you know." They both sort of smile and stand in silence for a moment.

"Would you like a drink?" She asks. "I can't boil the kettle or anything, but I think I have a bottle of wine somewhere..."

"Oh, no thanks," he shakes his head immediately. "I don't drink."

"Really?"

"New Year's resolution."

"And you've stuck to it... that's impressive." She smiles again, more genuine this time. By now they are sat facing each other on the small sofa, the candlelight flickering, their faces lighting up and then receding into shadow.

"Actually..." he looks down, then up, "that was a lie. I don't know why I said it was a resolution. I just avoid drink these days - that and a lot of other things."

"Why? If you don't mind me asking." She says it in a way that reminds him he's her guest. In all honesty, she can be a nosy cow and she's aware of it.

"I used to be kind of a junkie," he tells her. "Wait, scrap that. No 'kind of' about it. I was a major junkie."

"Wow," she seems impressed somehow. "How come you're not anymore?"

"All sorts of reasons, I guess... mainly though, I just didn't want to end up dead."

"That's fair, I suppose." She wonders what else you're supposed to say in a situation like this.

"I'm in a way cooler place now, though. I'm Buddhist now, and it helps a lot... I used to think that religion was a pile of crap, but these days I can understand why people go for it. I don't believe in God, but there's a lot to be said for finding order in the chaos."

"That sounds very Zen," she mock-bows over one of the candles. "I'm not a huge believer in anything. I was into Scientology for a little while, but it got a tad ridiculous. They're such friendly people, though - don't think I ever met a Sci that I didn't like."

They're quiet again for a little while - she guesses that he's thinking exactly the same thing as her. Namely; why on earth am I telling this stranger all this? She puts it down the the powercut, and imagines people all over town, sat in the dark, deprived of television and resorting to human company.

"I'm sorry," he says suddenly. "I didn't mean to start pouring my heart out. I can go if you want..." She says no, and then she gets an idea.

"If it would help," she says slowly, "I could make it even."

"You're willing to... willing to what, exactly? Give me a confession?"

"If you like. Tell you something bad, something important. So you're not all embarrassed and apologetic like you're looking now." She stands up abruptly, and walks into the next room. A minute later, she's back with a small bundle of folded up notes, tied together like love letters.

"My suicide notes," she offers them to him. "Unimaginative to the point of parody. But there you go."

He glances down at her curly handwriting and knows right away that he won't be able to read them.

"You wanted something real. Something personal. Surely you can't get more personal than that, right?"

"I don't know what to say," he says, and he's not just saying it if that makes any sense.

"I never actually went so far as to try it for real. I'm way too much of a wimp. But, stupid teenage girl that I was, I felt that writing the letter was an important step. I suppose that's why I've kept them all these years. Some days I look at them and think about how dumb and silly I was, and other days I remember exactly how bloodshot my eyes were from crying as I wrote a particular line. Memory's a funny thing."

She takes one from him and reads it to herself, under her breath. She signed each note 'Yours Truly', as if writing to someone in another country, someone she barely knew. Who had she written them to? Who had she been thinking about, when she sat on the edge of the bath with a razor hovering over her wrist, like the sword of Damocles?

"Are you okay?" She feels him touch her hand. She nods and smiles at him, hoping that the dim light will hide the tears threatening to spill over. She's spent too long crying, and as odd as it seems to admit, she's actually having a nice time with this man from Flat 3B. She sidles a little closer to him on the sofa.

"Isn't it weird," he says, "when you're in a room but you never realise that there's music playing?"

"You've only just noticed?"

He nods.

"How is it playing? There's no power."

"Portable stereo. Good thing, really; I can't stand a night without music."

"Haven't heard this in years."

"I love this CD," she tells him in a whisper, as if it's another confession.

"Me too," he confesses back.

They sit together, closer and closer, not talking, until he speaks again;

"You know... usually, listening to Joni Mitchell while sitting in the dark would be one of the most depressing things in the world. But tonight..."

"I know what you mean. Good old Joni is less sad tonight."

That's exactly it, he thinks to himself. The most beautifully mournful woman in the world is a little less sad tonight, and the same is true of the people in the candle-lit Flat 1A.

Just before our love got lost you said

I am as constant as a northern star

And I said, constant in the darkness

Where's that at?

... When the lights come back on, the girl is in the arms of the boy. Their clothes lie scattered around the room, and it looks for a second like the flat has played host to a wild party of semi-clad revellers who suddenly vanished, leaving nothing but a couple of random garments behind.