‘Does it feel light?’ says Anna in her doorway.
It feels as light as looking at the sun / an empty bag of flour once the shops have shut / a picked pocket.
It is the underneath of the mantelpiece as seen from the floor. It is looking off the side of the ferry, at where the metal meets the water. It is climbing the narrow steps to the top of the bell tower and being sickened by the sway of the bell.
I think you are six thousand feet tall, not six foot six, and it would take me days with spikes on to hike up to your face, and then I’d have to shimmy down, and there would be an avalanche. I’d break my ankle and be on the front of the local paper.
‘Yes, it does’ I lie.