We woke. We blinked. We yawned. We deactivated the alarm. We rose. We showered. We shared the soap. We dried each other. We weigh each other. We descended the stairs. We sat at the breakfast table. We heated our milk. We ate Shreddies. We sweetened our Shreddies with honey. We made coffee. We put on the radio. We listened to Jean-Pierre by Miles Davis. We listened to Kissy Kissy by The Kills. We listened to Wallflower by Dylan. We moved to the sofa. We sat in our usual places. We watched Trisha. We watched Popworld. We lamented the loss of Simon Amstell. We grimaced at Alexa Chung. We swooned at Alex Zane. We like his hair, we like his skinny jeans. We watch a new Bloc Party video. We watch an advert for a new range of Nike trainers. We switch off the television. We water our strawberries. We turn off the lights. We take out the transluscent orange bags for the recycling cart, We walk towards London Fields. We buy an Independent. We buy a Twix. We buy some toffee-flavoured popcorn. We rent a film. We walk by the tennis courts. We stop to watch a game of doubles. We enter the park. We regard the green. We taste the air. We sit on our favourite bench. We sit in our usual places. We open the Twix. We each eat a stick. We watch in horror as a football rolls towards us. We are expected to kick it back. We can’t kick a football. We’ll embarass ourselves. We let it roll beneath the bench. We do not move. We do not move as he approaches us. We do not move our legs as he kneels to retrieve the ball. We do not move as we notice him looking up our skirts as he retrieves the ball. We lie. We part our legs, slightly, as we notice him looking up our skirts. We blink faster. We quiver gently as his skin glances ours. We exhale and sigh deeply as he turns his back. We pretend to read the Independent, we watch them play football. We especially watch him. We hear the ice-cream van. We see the ice-cream van. We both want ice-cream. We don’t buy ice-cream. We are watching our weight. We feel rain. We return home. We switch on the lights. We weigh each other. We eat onion soup. We spray insecticide on our stawberries. We put on the DVD we rented. We turn off the lights to create a ‘cinema-effect’. We move to the sofa. We sit in our usual places. We are watching Picnic at Hanging Rock. We admire the lace the girls wear. We are envious of their finery. We shudder at the end of the film. We are drowsy. We switch the television off, we are sat in darkness. We masturbate thinking of the boy in the park. We sleep.