The Woman Who Walked Into Doors

Things come back when I listen. The music drags out memories. That's one thing about my life; it has a great soundtrack.

She was big. She reminded me of an Indian woman or a knacker, the same huge soundless way of moving. She knew exactly where everything was, even things that had no fixed place. A knife on the table — her hand went out and took it up by the handle while she was turning on the cold tap and facing the sink. Her shoulders were massive. There was no fat there under her dress; it was all strength. The dress was flowery but there were no real colours. Her hair was black and grey and long, the longest I'd ever seen on a middle-aged woman. It wasn't tied up or anything. It was loose. She'd shake her head to get it out of the way, and it obeyed. She was like a statue, big and solid; there was something magnificent about her. But I could see it as well — she was bad. She hated things.