It is dark. A dark autumn night. Traffic has stilled, peace is punctuated only by the occasional firework.
Then in the distance, from out of the darkness, a low, rasping, “incredibly grating voice” is heard, inaudible at first, then creeping closer, closer, until it is almost in the room.
…It just really pisses me off that she thinks she can get away with that, ‘Ooh, I’m so ‘ard, because my name’s Lizzy Bennett’, and you know what? It’s just bullying!
A voice like this, words like these, their owner and their author must be found; a swift look out of the roadside window reveals our justice-seeking poet of the night, in becoming espadrilles and denim pedal pushers, clutching at a crumpled two litre green plastic bottle, its paper label torn off, a male companion (embarrassed? in agreement? sympathy?) in turn clutching at her arm.
They dance in spirals across the road, and sink into Portland Square, the white heat of her voice tempered only as distance leads them off as swiftly as it led them in, leaving nothing more than a vapour trail of incandescent indignation; her pride pricked by another’s prejudice.