three degrees centigrade. clear.

Tales of a Black Heart.

1: Anna

Anna.

Anna, Anna, Anna.

The silver-blue hair hanging wistfully over gamine ears. Eyes, pleading panda eyes; thickly circled in turquoise like a cartoon boxer. Flickering, at intervals, a lighthouse-steady helplessness. Her smallness wrapped in a black raincoat that falls short of her knees. Poking out from underneath, some kind of legging; the lacy, stretchy, synthetic type. Poking out from the sleeves are black lacy wrists, as she sips her coffee. The girlish coffee grip: elbows on the table, a small, pale hand either side of the cup and held about three inches from the mouth. Gentle blowing of her thin plum lips and the anxious tapping of her cheap flat shoe against the table leg. A bird with a broken wing, beating against a shoe box.

There is, of course, a bloke. There is always a bloke. The agent? The photographer? Gopher? Shortly he arrives, in a yellow anorak. He is well spoken. Thin-rimmed metal spectacles and ill-fitting navy twill trousers. What is that he's carrying? One of those faux leather portfolios. And a ballpoint pen. It clicks ostentatiously in his plump hand. Click-click! Click-click!

"So... let's start by quickly going over what you've done so far, what your experience is... then we'll talk about what we might do in the future...."

"Okay."

"Girl-girl?"

"No problem."

"Girl-boy?"

"No problem."

"Girl-girl-boy?"

Hesitation. Bitten lip.

"Okay."

"But mainly photographs, so far?"

"Mainly photographs."

"Any videos?"

"Some videos. I... did. Last week I did... but...."

"You weren't comfortable?"

"I wasn't... rewarded."

"So it was a money thing?"

"Yeah. A money thing."

So... let's talk about money..."

Their voices dropped, lower: inaudible. I went back to reading my book. I didn't want to hear much more anyway.