Control

Her life is out of control. She has no time. No space. No grace. Strangers grasp at her clothes as she walks past, shouting their demands and flailing in front of her dying eyes. She sees them but doesn't respond. She has no clean clothes. The fridge is bare. She hasn't called her parents for weeks. At lunch, she eats out at a scruffy Chinese cafe to save the bother of ingredients, collanders and greasy pans, an infinite choice of sauces. Once, she loved cooking - the hiss of sesame oil on a hot wok. Life has been overtaken by appointments, expectations, wrong motives, no meaning yes. She's sad and powerless. Her life is formless and empty. She begins to weep, slowly and deliberately, silent salty tears staining warm cheeks. She loves you.