Underneath my body, the pointless brushstrokes grind against the ice, staining it red and blue. As I careen down the slope, the canvas transforms into something more beautiful than the dead artist could have ever imagined. 

Not that it means much anymore. Especially in this country. All the great paintings have already been ridden. 

I’d had two coffees by the time we boarded at seven in the morning, so I was ready for a conversation. Talkative, I am, but not too fond of the sound of my own voice, mind. People are interesting, and I like to lend an ear. Just that. I adjusted the heavy backpack on my shoulder, handed my ticket to the attendant at the door and stepped aboard. 

When Alexandra turned four, her mother gave her a thumb-sized ceramic swan. Alexandra’s mother had found it folded within a pink chenille bedspread whilst cleaning out her own mother’s linen cupboard. The swan – Cygnus cygnus, the common swan – had a long, snaking neck and wings held aloft as though in mid-flight. Its glazed flank shone pearlescent when tilted toward the light. 

Rob pressed his palm against the mattress at the behest of the assistant store manager. Her exact words had been, ‘Have a go. See how it feels.’ Rob’s eyes had faltered on her name tag as he leaned over the mattress with an outstretched hand. The small yellow plate fastened above the assistant manager’s left breast was embossed with black print. Her name was Stella. 

I sat in the back of the cop car, hands cuffed. Clowns to the left of me, jokers to the right. We'd been caught honkin’ again. The officers drove off, heading to the circus court tent. The ringmaster was sitting inside, the squeaky gavel in his hand and the lion jumping back and forth through the flaming ring behind him.