The lock on the door of the house does not work. It hasn’t worked for a while. You know this, so you enter. You do not knock because it is 3am. You are drunk, but your heartbeat soon sobers you up. Yes, you’re nervous. You are a burglar. You feel like one. But you know every woman in the house. One is a very good friend, one is a friend, one was your first true love, and one is Laura. It is Laura’s room that you stumble into in the dark, a blind drunk, but you know the layout of the house oh so well and you open the door to her room. She must be here asleep. You’re knackered, you just want to climb into bed with her and fall asleep in her warmth. But she’s not here, no. Her small cramped room is actually well-lit in this darkness. It’s upstairs and the window faces out onto the street. The near-by street light is bright and gives an almost moonlight-type glow to the room. You’re a burglar, but you’re no thief. She’s not home. Clothes scattered over the bed, she must have popped in, changed, popped out. You know where she is, you do, you knew before you entered the house but you still got that punch in the face, that sickness in your stomach, that hard heart-beating (like when you have your first cigarette in the morning with a hangover) upon entering her room. You leave quietly, like a burglar. You’ve taken nothing but perhaps lost something.