Annie had always preferred the colder months. Night settling over the city so early made her worries seem less significant. On an unrelentingly perfect summer evening, the discrepancy between what she wanted and her reality could be oppressive.
But on an inky afternoon, it was easier to view her current situation – working in the call centre – as a mere blip.
She could comfort herself more effectively with hot drinks, fairy lights and bubble baths – everything that bit more glittery and less clear-cut.
She even preferred her journey home at that time of year. After emerging from the Tube she had 10 good minutes of walking through darkening streets, past windows not yet shuttered.
Each was a lozenge of light, an insight into someone’s life. The area still up-and coming, estate agent parlance for a bit rough, but full of family houses nonetheless, with their attendant peace lilies, pianos, cornices stuck to the centre of ceilings.
She regularly glimpsed the same mother rocking her baby, a trio of children in their pyjamas watching bedtime cartoons and an elderly man sitting on his armchair looking out.
So many lives playing out. So many possibilities.
It almost made her want to pick up her paintbrush, to try and fix the feeling.
This story is from the November 2020 edition of Womans Weekly Fiction Special.
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This story is from the November 2020 edition of Womans Weekly Fiction Special.
Start your 7-day Magzter GOLD free trial to access thousands of curated premium stories, and 9,000+ magazines and newspapers.
Already a subscriber? Sign In
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