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I’ve always suffered from this belief that if everyone loves something all at once, then I’m probably supposed to walk in a very different direction.

I really do mean it when I say that i’ve suffered with it.

It’s taken time and continues to take time to unlearn an instinct like that, to accept where it’s useful, to notice where it’s showing me something new about myself. To lean in where it serves me without becoming the kind of person who’s addicted to always playing a devil’s advocate role.

The truth is, if the crowd is heading toward the sunset, my instinct is usually to find a quiet place in the east and wait for it to rise again. I don’t know what that says about me in the long term — probably nothing flattering — but it’s there, this small internal resistance to whatever everyone else is already doing and the ways in which they’re thinking.

The funny thing is, when I finally do make it ‘east’, I’m of course never the only one there. There are always others already sitting in the place, waiting. Maybe the comfort has been in believing the opposite would have been true: that I’d find an untouched point of view, and that there’s some quiet dignity in imagining I might find the people carrying the same hope.

This became difficult, of course, in the year of 2020, when the world locked itself indoors and people started documenting their new habits online as if they were a kind of merit badge. The sourdough. The banana bread. The indoor workouts. The pasta makers. Every day, someone was proudly announcing their transformation into a home-dwelling renaissance person, and I remember looking at all of it thinking… Yeah, I can’t do this. I can’t become a cliché in a crisis.

But in that locked off world it became impossible to find my people. For the first time, it really did feel like I had my own place to watch the sunset while everyone else applauded themselves for baking through the apocalypse.

I want to be very clear, those people weren’t clichés, it just felt inevitable that all of this, all of these stories would eventually become one. Even the fact that I’m writing these words now, acknowledging the banana bread and the pasta makers, proves how quickly the commentary hardened into a trope. I didn’t want to join a global wave of self-improvement through baking, in the middle of a crisis. It all felt too neat, too predictable.

The twist, of course, is that avoiding cliché does not stop you from becoming one.

While everyone else was baking, knitting, or learning a language, I quietly developed a strange habit of chopping fruit very slowly throughout the day so I could freeze it and make smoothies for the week. Somehow that felt less embarrassing, to only myself of course, nobody else cared. Then I slipped into a phase of making taco shells, not tacos, just the shells. I had no interest in what went inside them; I just became obsessed with getting the shape, texture and taste right. Then, in a moment of either desperation or optimism, I still don’t know which, came my ‘Zoom-Hinge’ dating era. One woman sent me a cocktail-making kit, and we got drunk together over our laptops. We laughed, flirted, leaned even further into the flirting, got incredibly risqué, felt the insanity of being unable to touch each other, laughed again, louder this time… and then eventually snapped our laptops shut. It was then I realised not only how drunk I was, but how deeply, absurdly alone the whole experience had been.

And when it was over the following year, I found out everyone else had been doing the exact same thing. I wasn’t the only one who suddenly owned a cast-iron tortilla press.

But that was the point, wasn’t it? No matter how hard any of us tried not to be predictable, the year cornered us. It made us fill the silence with parts of ourselves we were never really supposed to meet. And in the middle of all that chaos, between the compulsions and the boredom, almost nothing behaved the way you’d expect it to behave. Everyone was trying to buy some tiny piece of stability. A new habit. A new toy. A new identity. And in all that strange buying, some things should’ve surged immediately, but didn’t. And for reasons I still don’t fully understand, one of the things that barely moved, albeit not until much later…

…was chess.

You’d think that with all that time, all that stillness, all those new rituals of distraction, chess sets would have been flying off the shelves. But in the United States, chess sales only rose by about 25%, just slightly faster than the toy industry overall, according to Juli Lennett, a toy analyst with NPD. A pretty ordinary rise considering everyone was at home.

And then something strange happened.

The week of October 23rd, chess sales didn’t just increase, they detonated, according to Lennett they jumped by 125%. Everywhere you looked, the pattern repeated. A New York Times piece reported that Goliath Games, a company selling several varieties of chess sets, saw sales up by 1,000% compared to the same week the year before. eBay recorded a 215% increase in chess sets and accessories. Their spokeswoman, Kara Gibson, said vintage sets were selling seven times faster than usual. In a year where people had more unstructured time than at any point in their adult lives, why did chess suddenly become the thing… then and not before?12

The blame lay solely at a pair of wide eyes nestled beneath an auburn bob, all of which were attached to a hypnotic and deliberate performance from Anya Taylor-Joy.

The Queen’s Gambit arrived on Netflix on October 23rd and immediately earned its worthy critical acclaim, turning Taylor-Joy into a household name, sure, but far more impressively, earning the respect of the chess community itself. High-level play, to them, was depicted with rare accuracy, whilst to the rest of us, it was depicted beautifully and cinematically. And suddenly, because of all of that, the world cared and particularly Americans cared. People who had never touched a board became fascinated by openings. People who couldn’t name a single grandmaster were debating endgames on Reddit. A seven-episode drama did what decades of outreach, marketing, and world championships had never quite managed: it made chess feel alive.

If you scroll through TikTok or Instagram today, the aftershocks of this moment are everywhere. Viral clips of grandmasters and street-table hustlers drawing crowds, teaching tactics, tricking strangers, dazzling them. Interactions that once belonged in the quiet corners of university halls, or in obscure online forums, or didn’t exist at all, now explode overnight. Young and old, casual and obsessive — even me — all swept up in a culture whose current visibility can be traced back to a single show that made chess look like something worth witnessing, worth understanding, and worth participating in.

The benefit, of course, for anyone who got swept up in this sudden cultural chess fever is that chess genuinely does something to the brain, as so many other things do.

Pattern recognition.

Anticipation

Patience.

Imagination.

Now the truth is, I’ve never played the game in my life, so I may be wrong about all of this, but there seems a strange intimacy to sitting opposite someone whose mind you’re trying to decode in real time. I imagine it sharpens a part of your brain in the same way running stretches calves or reading stretches language, except this part strains toward prediction, toward understanding what someone might do before they do it. And The Queen’s Gambit, within seven episodes, offered people a way into that world, a way into a way of speaking most people didn’t even realize was a language at all.

These hidden languages — the ones that I often think we don’t even know we’re learning, the ones you only understand by feeling them, that shape us long before we even realize we’re fluent — I’ve always been very obsessed with. Chess is one of them for sure; music is another. Sport, cooking, friendship, attraction. These quiet grammars of human experience teach us who we are and who everybody else is without ever saying a word. And I’ve spent most of my life thinking about one of these languages in particular, one that shapes the body, yes, but in a much more profound way shapes the mind. And I wonder what happens when, like chess or the culinary arts, it finally gets it’s Queen’s Gambit moment. When we are finally handed a story that invites the world in and reforms them frame by frame.

Which is why I want to present the case that there are no great movies about dance.

None.

And that absence matters more than you think.

That absence doesn’t just point to a problem with filmmaking. It announces something deeper, about how we tell stories, how we value expression, and maybe even how we understand the human spirit.

Family Resemblance

We should probably address the claim first. I know some people are going to want to push back on this. If I heard it, I might push back on it too.

I don’t think there are any great dance movies. And I want to be really clear about what I mean.

Let’s start by looking at a few films that can be be flattened into the same argument.

Firstly there are films with bad dancing in, that are otherwise good stories.

Save the Last Dance is probably the clearest example. It’s a solid enough coming-of-age story. Julia Stiles is doing real emotional work. But the dancing itself veers into the awkward, the over-choreographed, the faintly silly. In recent years, those scenes have become something people lovingly mock — much like the sequences in Honey. The film itself functions. The movement doesn’t.

Then there’s the inverse: good dancing trapped inside awful movies.

You Got Served is not a good film by any conventional measure. The dialogue is thin. The story barely holds. But the battle scenes? Electric. Precise. Alive. The dancing carries a conviction the script never earns. The same is true of much of the Step Up franchise — extraordinary physicality, stranded inside narratives that feel assembled purely to justify the next routine.

Those two categories are frustrating, but at least they’re honest about the imbalance.

Next, you’ve got fantasy — films adored in both departments, yet totally unrecognisable to anyone who’s actually lived inside the world. Glossy, heightened, but ultimately unreal.

Dirty Dancing, Fame, Footloose. Scenes that are culturally untouchable, yet suddenly large groups are performing wildly complex routines we never saw them learn, dancing miles away from where the music first began. Time collapses. Labour vanishes.

Fame, in particular, was always less a portrait of an industry than a dancer’s wish-fulfilment. Intensity substituted for celebration. Volume stood in for truth.

These films aren’t documenting dance as it’s lived. They’re offering something else entirely — a dream of transformation without duration, mastery without the long, unglamorous middle. They’re beautiful. They’re pleasurable. They’re just not recognisable as a world.

And finally you have great films where dance is technically present, but ultimately in service of something else entirely.

Take Black Swan. Darren Aronofsky’s psychological thriller is intense, beautifully shot, and anchored by an extraordinary performance from Natalie Portman. But dance isn’t really the subject — it’s the pressure cooker. Ballet becomes a metaphor for psychological collapse. The world of dance itself, the daily reality of studios, hierarchies, quiet negotiations, never really enters the frame. It’s no more about ballet than Whiplash is about jazz — and, if we’re honest, many dancers I know recognised their own industry more clearly in Miles Tellers Drumming.

Billy Elliot comes close — a genuinely moving British drama. Beautiful performances. A story that deserves its place in the canon. But again, dance functions as an escape route. The film is about class, masculinity, and personal liberation. It isn’t about the ecosystem of dance itself. Not about the studio. Not about the long middle years. Not about the world.

I’ve never seen a dance movie that does that. That builds the scene around the dancer. That captures the world that I recognised. I say all of this as someone who’s been inside that world for well over 20 years. I choreograph for a living. I’ve lived that life. The world of form of contemporary dance in particular is notoriously difficult to explain. And whenever someone asks me “Is there a movie that shows what it’s actually like?” I’ve got nothing. Nothing honest. Nothing that feels like home.

As you can imagine, I’ve had this argument with friends and co-workers for years. I’ve talked about shows like The Bear or films like Inside Llewyn Davis and begged for us to have something similar, something that captures yes, the central characters of a story, but also quietly builds a habitat underneath them, slipping the ecosystem in under cover of night. Those around me have tried to argue that Frances Ha or All That Jazz come close, but the truth is I’ve found neither fully satisfying. The latter is dark, manic, brilliant, but it isn’t really about community, or even about dance; it’s about burnout and obsession and death. It’s not a reflection of the world I work in. It’s a warning. And the former… I’m sorry to Greta Gerwig in advance, but it’s simply not good enough.

Because the thing these other works understand is that you have to capture all of it. The temperature of the entire industry. I understand the heat of the kitchen because The Bear lets me feel it. I understand the coldness, the clubs, the competition, because Inside Llewyn Davis lets me sit inside that world, even if only for two hours. These stories give you the unwritten rules, quiet humiliations, the emotional debris of giving your life to something. They show the odd gravitational pull of people who hover around success but never quite touch it. They can’t give you the whole truth, no story can, but they give you a felt truth. A truth of the atmosphere.

And I have yet to experience anything like that for dance.

This, of course, brings up a rather pertinent question, one that sits not only at the centre of this essay, but maybe at the centre of the statement itself.

Who cares?

Who cares that we don’t have a great depiction of dance, the dance industry, the art form itself, on screen? Who cares that it’s never been popularised the way chess was? Why should anyone worry that it hasn’t ignited a fire in potential audiences or offered them a clear way into the form? Why does this absence matter? Why is this important?

Private Language

To answer why this absence matters, we first have to ask why there has never been a piece of media about dance that truly reflects the culture and the art form — something capable of piercing the zeitgeist and making people feel a need not only to do it, but to watch it, to witness it, to understand it.

The answer, unexpectedly, came from Seth Rogen.

Within ten minutes of watching the Golden Globe– and Emmy-winning satirical comedy ‘The Studio’, it all hit me.

The writing is razor-sharp.
The world of cinema is absolutely skewered.

Not just what there is to love, but what there is to hate and lament.

The hypocrisy.
The contradiction.
The ego.
The capitalism.
The passion.
The adoration.
It’s all there.

All named. All nailed.

There’s no dodging. No soft edges. And yet it never tears down its love of cinema.

And that’s when it landed for me.

Dance can’t do that.

Part of the reason why is technical.
Dance is incredibly hard to film.

I’ll say this clearly, as a choreographer: I’ve seen an extraordinary amount of badly edited dance. Like a bad fight scene where you can’t tell who’s hitting who. Too many cuts. Too much coverage. Not enough trust in the body.

Honestly, a lot of people seem far more obsessed with the location, the set, the costume, than the movement itself. I genuinely believe that if you held the camera still — one long, wide shot — maybe eighty percent of the choreography we see in dance films today, whether in music videos, advertisements, or art projects, simply wouldn’t hold you. I see it all the time.

Which is why, when something does hit — the work of Shay Latukolan for Jungle for instance —

— or the Burberry campaign choreographed by La Horde —

It lands so hard. Because it’s so rare.

But deeper than that, the real problem is structural.

Dance, even on stage, hasn’t found a compelling way to turn the lens back on itself.

Other forms have.

Film and television? Meta is baked into the form. There are countless stories about the nature of storytelling itself. I’ve already mentioned The Studio, but it’s hardly alone.

Music, too, is constantly reflective. My own sister, Mahalia, has a track called No Pressure about the emotional toll of trying to stay composed under the constant pressure of the industry.

It’s catchy, sure — but it’s also commentary. On control. On self-image. On survival in the public eye.

Literature is full of this kind of self-awareness. I finally read If on a winter’s night a traveler after seeing it recommended endlessly online, a novel about you, the reader, attempting — and repeatedly failing — to finish a novel. Or Misery, where the act of writing itself becomes the story. Or Alphabetical Diaries, which turns formal constraint and language structure into its organising principle.

The problem, of course, is that dance begins in the body. Language comes later — if it comes at all. And self-awareness requires articulation. You can’t meaningfully critique a system if your form has no built-in tools for reflection.

So instead, as a sector, we often end up dancing — literally and figuratively — around the truth of ourselves. We aestheticise it. We beautify it. We sublimate it.

And the things we don’t talk about?
That’s where the most compelling stories live.

I genuinely believe a great series about contemporary dance — or ballet — of different companies and organisations around the world would be one of the great anthology shows. Not despite the tension inside the sector, but because of it.

For instance…

…. there’s an old guard in dance — just before my generation. Ruthless. Stoic. Studio before the self. And then there’s a new guard: liberal, activist, politically awake. Power bounces between them, and change becomes something that can be invoked — or withdrawn — almost at will.

I’ve seen abuse from both sides.
Old-school instructors demanding silence and submission.
Radical peers using progressiveness as a shield for bad behaviour.

And I lived both.

When I first trained at Northern School of Contemporary Dance — a respected institution in Leeds — the head teacher at the time embodied that old school mentality. Strict. Traditional. Midway through my training, he was pushed out. Dramatically. His methods were no longer tolerated.

When I returned to finish my degree, the culture had completely changed. New leadership. New ethos.

I watched the shift happen in real time. I watched students who had once demanded change step into a softer system — one that prioritised well-being over total devotion— and I saw how even that came with its own contradictions.

That’s a television series right there.

A whole show built around the tension between old guard and new. Between tradition and progress. Between what dancers were once asked to give — total sacrifice — and what people are willing to give now.

It’s not just generational. It’s about work. Power. Devotion. And when commitment quietly turns into exploitation.

All of that lives inside the art form.
In the studio.
In the body.
In every note of praise, correction, or silence.

And that’s just one thread.

We never really speak honestly about pretty privilege in dance. We think we do — but we don’t. We avoid conversations about symmetry, body type, and aesthetic trends, and how directly they shape success, especially in commercial work. The same dancers who once criticised beauty standards often end up reproducing them once they hold power — not always intentionally, but because it’s the lens they’ve been trained to see through.

We mistake charisma for clarity.
Aesthetics for depth.

I’ve seen abusers described as having a ‘beautiful soul’ because they had a symmetrical face and could improvise a gorgeous solo. We spiritualise everything. Wrap critique in soft language. Reward vagueness. Whisper the real stuff behind closed doors — but never out loud.

And we rarely admit how often we’re fooled by the body. I’ve felt it too — romances that felt electric in the studio, only to realise later they were nothing more than choreographic chemistry.

All of this is gold.

Gold for television.
Gold for film.

Not just as storylines, but as vessels — ways in. Themes and arcs that hook an audience while quietly teaching them the form. This is how you show what it means to make a dance work. To clean a number. To repeat something obsessively until it finally clicks. The hierarchy in the room. The adrenaline of alignment. The pain of counts. The sharp sound of hearing the word ‘again’ after being told the last time was the last time. You could show the intensity of training. Of comparison. Of watching your body change and trying to love it anyway. Of living in mirrors without flinching. Musicality. Breath. How dancers talk about pain, recovery, trust and touch.

All the tiny details that never make it into mainstream media would suddenly make sense — because they’d be grounded in story.

And once people are invested in the world, they begin to understand the form. The discipline. The devotion. The cost. Which is when something rare happens. You haven’t just told a story — you’ve opened a door.

Right now, when dance does appear on screen, it’s usually sanitised or spiritualised. Rarely self-aware. Rarely critical. Rarely true.

And that’s the gap.

The irony here thought, is that the thing we keep circling — the absence of a clear, shared language — may not be a failure at all, but the very condition that gives dance its meaning.

Tree Surgery

We’re close to the end now, but before the denouement, I think it’s important to talk — very quickly — about something that often gets missed in conversations about media, art, and culture. About how individual success can quietly reshape — and sometimes warp — the collective health of a form. We need to talk about success as it pertains to the forest, not the tree.

Consider stand-up comedy. Crowd-work clips are everywhere online. Comedians look into the audience, ask what someone does for a living, who they’re sitting next to. The clips go viral. They kill. They work. They turn certain comedians into stars.

But they also train audiences to expect immediacy — to value chance over structure, spontaneity over design. A sense of setup, tension, and delayed payoff begins to erode: the kind of work that might land minutes later, or only at the end of a full special.

The consequence is subtle but real. Attention spans shrink. Audiences begin to expect to be part of the show. Comedians stop building long arcs and start chasing moments. They’re taught by an algorithm what will work — and, in turn, they teach audiences not to stay long enough to hear anything else.

We see a similar thing in television. Think about Netflix’s dialogue culture — scripts written so you can follow them from behind your phone. Characters over-explain in the moment. Half-attention is rewarded. Viewers are trained out of the kind of focus required to sit still, be present, and give something their full, undivided self.3

Music isn’t immune either. TikTok helps artists blow up — but songs get shorter. Bridges disappear. Third acts vanish. In R&B, the emotional swell, the layered instrumentation, the patience of a full build — it’s all quietly eroding. Music is increasingly made for fingers that scroll, not speakers that sit in a room.4

Even literature is shifting. First-person narrative is everywhere. It’s intimate. It’s confessional. It’s powerful. But it also conditions us to resist third-person storytelling — and that has consequences. Our ability to empathise with people who aren’t us begins to dull. Stories increasingly orbit the I and the me, not the she, he, or they. With research suggesting that first-person narration doesn’t broaden emotional engagement so much as intensify it — but only for readers who already have strong access to their inner emotional lives. 5

In all of these cases, the individuals win.
The crowd-work comedian.
The binge-able show.
The viral songstress.
The confessional writer.

The tree grows.

But what happens to us — the forest?

What do we lose when the forest burns.
When the well-worked slow-building set disappears.
When we stop waiting for the payoff that arrives minutes later, not seconds.
When shows no longer trust silence.
When songs end before they’ve had time to change us.
When third-person stories — the ones that ask us to sit inside someone else’s life — quietly fade from view.

And in that wider loss, there’s a more specific one that’s gone largely unnoticed. What are we losing by never having a great piece of dance media? By never cultivating a large global discerning audience — one with real connoisseurship of the form? An audience trained not just to consume dance, but to read it, sit with it, and stay long enough for it to unfold.

And that brings me to the final portion of this essay, the answer to why any of this matters at all.

Ludwig Wittgenstein.

Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus

The philosopher Ludwig Wittgenstein wrote a book which can be abbreviated to the TLP.

You can access it for free here.

It’s essentially a book about the limits of language.
About how language shapes reality and where exactly it begins to fail.

Its structure is strange, almost obsessive.
Seven core propositions.
Each one broken down into numbered remarks.
Then remarks on the remarks.
And remarks on those remarks. And on.

If you were to somehow unfurl the book it would a resemble a branching diagram —
logic folding in on itself.

Approximately 189 pages. 524 declarative statements. Broken down across 6 chapters.

And then a final chapter — chapter seven — statement 525.

No sub-sections like it’s former chapters.
No elaboration.
Just a single line:

“Whereof one cannot speak, thereof one must be silent.”

Wittgenstein believed that some things — the big, ineffable somethings — can’t be put into words.
Not without flattening them.
Not without cheapening them.

And that maybe the only way to encounter them honestly is not to attempt to explain them at all, but to turn instead toward a form of communication that is looser, more difficult to discern, more abstract.

And that perhaps, through this abstraction — through modes of communication that resist clarity — lie the only ways we can begin to receive, and return to the world, these ineffable truths. These abstractions, of course, have always been right in front of us in the world of art and nature. What’s being lost now isn’t the artist’s and the planets capacity to make them, but the audience’s ability and want to receive them.

Abstraction has become easier to mock. Quicker to dismiss. Audiences en masse struggle now more than ever to sit with what happens when you allow yourself to fall into a piece of work that stares right back at you.

And with that degradation comes an uncomfortable truth: the tools the human race once sharpened to receive the ineffable truths of the world are becoming blunt.

Consider for a moment Mr. Fox…

This isn’t a scene about logic.
It isn’t there to explain anything.

It’s there so you can place meaning on it.

From the story, yes —
but also from yourself.
Your life.
Your fears.
Your longing.
Your awe.

That’s what abstraction does.
That’s what movement does.
That’s what dance can do — at its very best.

Dance, as an abstract, wordless form, never used to need to explain itself in a known manner to matter. It needs to remind its audience why it matters.

Of course there’s meaning in the making.
Of course the artist is speaking.

But it’s you — the audience — who layers it back with your own meaning. You finish the work. With your own truth. Your own ache.

And this is ultimately the part of you that’s under threat.
A part you may not even know exists.
A part being quietly soothed into unconsciousness.

Not because artists have stopped caring, but because the systems around them increasingly don’t know how to value it. When decisions are made by metrics rather than feeling, by testing rather than trust, this space — the space where meaning is completed by the audience — is the first thing to be cut. We’ve seen it openly admitted: scenes flagged as confusing, slow, non-essential. Moments that don’t land cleanly in a focus group because they aren’t meant to land cleanly at all.

Even one of the biggest films of the year, Barbie, nearly lost the scene its director Greta Gerwig described as the heart of the movie — precisely because it couldn’t be easily explained, summarised, or justified in advance. 6 And yes, that’s a relatively shallow example when i’m asking us to reach for something far deeper than a single studio note. But the logic is the same. What gets mistaken for indulgence is often where the work is doing its deepest labour.

The real danger is that audiences don’t experience this as a loss. They experience it as comfort. As clarity. As something smoother, easier, more legible. A part of you is quietly being lulled — and you never even realise it’s happening.

And when it comes to abstract art forms that still have the power to shift something inside you, I’ll say this plainly, there is no art form that does quite what a good piece of dance can do. I don’t mean better or worse. I mean different. Specific. Singular.

It may take time. It’ll take work too. You’ll wade through probably just as much that you hate as you can love.

But eventually dance will wake a part of you, you didn’t even know was sleeping.

She woke up laughing. As she often did.

To wake laughing is difficult. Sleep has a way of loosening things. Dreams don’t so much erase as soften; conclusions arrive less firmly, intent slips out of focus. To carry laughter through requires a particular kind of effort, an unconscious one. A thought must be held tightly enough not to drift, rehearsed well enough to return before doubt has time to intervene.

A laugh like this has to start low, somewhere deep in the stomach. Rather than rising, it echoes outward, passing through the body before it ever reaches the mouth. Her eyes would drift open as she shifted with it, the laughter moving her before any conscious thought could arrive, before she could consider that the day had begun at all. She couldn’t say when it started, not precisely. Only that, more often than not, this was how her days now began.

The truth was, there was no space to consider what the laughter meant, or why it had arrived. Mornings moved quickly. The day made its first demand early, and she had learned not to linger in soft places as the sun rose.

She worked at an upscale hotel on the east side of Orlando called The Dalton. It hosted important clients, the kind who expected discretion to look like effortlessness. The place ran on a somewhat peculiar principle the hotel’s owner liked to describe as shared responsibility, which meant that she was expected to manage the staff while also taking part in the work itself. Authority was something you earned repeatedly, not something you stood apart from.

This small part of the city, she would come to learn, had its own codes, some of them odd, some of them unspoken. And so, on some mornings she fielded complaints at the front desk; on others she scrubbed bathroom sinks; on a few she sat in the office above it all. Though to be on high meant very little, as there was a belief that no task was beneath anyone, though certain people were very careful never to be present when that belief was tested.

Her hours were early. She finished most days around two, just as new guests began to check in, the building shifting quietly from preparation to performance.

The Dalton had once carried an older, more American name, before being bought by a British proprietor who had visited the area when he was young, liked what he saw, purchased the building, and renamed it after his favourite James Bond performance. He returned only rarely.

His codes, however, remained.

For a time, the waking laughter had worried her husband. He never asked about it properly, but in such a way that she had learned to reassure him anyway. If it had alarmed her too, which it sometimes did, she imagined that it became easier to make it ordinary and in doing so, she found she had calmed herself as well.

The two of them scraped by.
She woke early; he often came home late.

Somewhere along the way their communication thinned. Sex had become something contained by the ring on her finger, and by the promises they had made to each other when they were younger. Kisses felt more like small proofs of their union, brief confirmations that the marriage still existed.

It wasn’t always this way. Sometimes, when she had enough space to consider how strange their marriage had become, she would realise there was a version of them she had begun to miss. He was of a slightly older world than her, raised a decade earlier, but had still somehow grown into a progressive and quietly assured sense of self.

When they first met, she had learned it best to make it known how much previous and present men had sought after her. She would tell him stories about those who wanted her, and those she did not want back, and some of those she did. He listened with unease, never feeling a need to compete with ghosts. His calm charmed her out of this habit and many more.

As they moved through life together, he learned how to place his light just slightly in the background, a place where he still shone, but without ever blinding those who wanted to see what he did. He had this impressive ability to present as a friend and smile authentically as other men sent over drinks, never for him, though he always had a taste when she asked.

When together, his ease and her lightness were sometimes misread as availability, a kind of ‘openness’. Couples they had made acquaintances with on trips away would let an invitation surface naturally in conversation. They laughed it off together knowingly and delicately moved things on, escaping awkwardness through a choreography they knew all too well.

He never worried about men who could offer her more. Though not a man of means himself, he knew what he had about him. He trusted that she would not leave him, and if she did, he believed, quietly, that he would find something else to occupy his days. Something that would be enough.

When friends from her adolescence came to stay with them, sending emails beforehand about how excited they were to catch up, to see what life had done with her now. They would arrive and linger only in old stories, old jokes, old versions of themselves that he could not participate. He rested by her side, occasionally glancing away if he wanted, more often than not settling on a view outside, to the lantana and bougainvillea, as he sipped whiskey slowly.

She took immense pride in this choice she had made for herself. In his steadiness, his lack of fear. When she was with friends who had married men with more money, she felt her head tilt upward whenever she noticed a need these men had to assert dominance, or when a flicker of jealousy slipped out despite itself. She liked knowing that he didn’t need to compete. It spared her from having to find out whether he could.. She liked knowing that his life did not hinge on being chosen, but that he was content to be chosen by her. When her girlfriends were around, she could sense the wanting in them, not for him, exactly, but for something quieter than the posturing they had ended up with. For their chosen one to live with a clear sense of his own limits. For someone who knew where his hands fit best, and did not need them to be everywhere at once. Who did not mistake noise for presence, or certainty for strength.

Over time, though, that assurance required less tending. It settled into something assumed, something neither of them felt the need to check on very often. Nothing had ended, of course. It had simply been left alone for far too long.

The partnership was cared for, but left rather unattended. Much like their children.

Children who, by all accounts were remarkably academic, something she made clear to anyone who asked, and often to those who didn’t. Despite not growing up in the more affluent parts of the city, they had achieved more than most, well above what people might have expected of them. She and her husband held pride in this: in what the children had accomplished, and in what they themselves had managed to provide.

However her pride did not always look the same as her husband’s. He was able to admire from a distance quietly, settled in the work he did and the life he had built, comfortable in the idea that it would leave its mark on their children and the world. She found this much harder, not in a way she could ever have admitted, even to herself.

When she spoke about her children, she was often wistful about what she might have done under similar circumstances. The kind of upbringing she had given them. The opportunities she had made room for. She said these things lightly, as though in passing, smiling as she spoke. But, when she spoke to them directly, the pride took on a different shape. She found ways, almost without meaning, to mention how different things had been for her at their age, what she hadn’t had, what she had learned to do without. The conversation would drift there eventually, no matter where it began. She spoke lightly still, but her smile felt different as if the information was being presented as simply background, as colour to her pride, but still something they ought to know. The children listened, quiet, attentive, but exchanged brief glances once they recognised the turn.

“We’re so proud of you,” she would say. “Your father and I. I’m just so happy you never had to worry the way we did.”

It was not that she wanted their gratitude. Not exactly. It was that she wanted them to see her. To understand the distance she believed she had crossed, and to notice it, even if they never said so. She did not think of this as envy. It was simply a way of keeping herself at ease. Of believing, quietly and without inspection, that she had been equal to her children all along, if not in outcome, then in potential, and that the difference between them had only ever been circumstance. That circumstance of course being that she had not been her own mother.

When the laughter finally subsided that morning, she got dressed, as she did on most other mornings. Dark slacks and a blouse that buttoned all the way up. The fabric had thinned from being washed too many times, but it still held just enough of its shape. The clothes were clean, pressed the night before, chosen carefully without much thought. All of this had become routine. Her shoes were low and sensible, polished more often than they needed to be. She wore no real uniform, but she dressed as if there was one.

Her destination, Winter Park, was a twenty-one-minute drive. On days when her husband needed the car, she took public transport instead, a journey that could stretch to over an hour, depending on when she left. The routine of her days did not give her anything, but it asked very little of her in return. One might have thought she felt frustrated on days when the car was made unavailable, but the truth is she preferred the bus. The journey took longer, but it left room for interruption, and she had grown fond of that possibility. She often looked out of the window and watched as the neighbourhoods changed. Orlando was a city to be admired, but as she moved further east, she couldn’t help but notice the amount of vegetation that shifted, with trees that leaned further over the road, and the faces she passed grew more awake, and paler in complexion.

‘The Dalton’ itself was of little consequence to her. It was simply where she worked. A place she moved through each morning and left behind each afternoon without ceremony. The guests came and went, carrying with them a certain ease she recognised but didn’t covet and she did her job well, out of habit rather than gratitude. There was a quiet dignity in earning a wage in a place she did not admire. In knowing how to be correct without believing in the rules that demanded it.

Importantly for her, she understood the difference between service and submission, even if no one had ever named it for her. The work paid what it paid. It asked little of her imagination, and she gave it no more than it required.

She worked for the guests, not with them, but on brief moments she considered the place too closely, or the people in it, she managed to contain any feelings of inferiority. If anything, the feeling receded. The longer she watched, the way they expected ease, the way inconvenience unsettled them, the way waiting seemed to offend, the more she found herself believing she carried something they didn’t. Not pride exactly. More a quiet certainty that effort had taught her things inheritance never needed to learn.

On most days, after her shift had finished, she returned home. The journey was longer in the afternoon, not because she overextended herself, but because the city grew livelier, more crowded. She often walked to a bus stop further from the hotel than necessary, lingering on the east side of Winter Park for a little longer. There was a sign she sometimes passed, pointing toward the gardens, and if she had enough time, she would walk through them.

But on some days, she stayed. She made her way south of the hotel, toward the centre of the town, where the streets were busier and the atmosphere more assured. Tree-lined brick roads, calm lakes that passed for beauty, an ease that felt practised. There was a private liberal arts college, and with it a kind of cultural confidence: galleries, cafés, bookstores. ‘The Dalton’ felt slightly out of place amongst it all. As though the owner, despite enjoying the area, had needed to leave evidence of himself, something that could not quite recede into the background.

There was one street in particular that held her attention. It carried a quiet elegance, something older, more deliberate. Wedding gown shops, second-hand books, the suggestion of permanence. From a distance her walking might have appeared aimless, but she knew how to dawdle, just long enough to arrive at the back of the queue at exactly 3:15, at Briar Row.

Briar Row had been there for decades, forty years, to be specific. Long enough to feel the same permanence as everything else, and yet it lived on a kind of constant anticipation. It sat just north at the edge of Central Park in Winter Park, close enough to the centre to feel important, and far enough out to collect a queue. The food was good — better than it needed to be — for an audience with few who had the ability to notice it, but priced according to who it served, not its quality.

Locals arrived with an air of familiarity, confident in the unspoken rules of when one ought to eat what, while tourists drifted in from elsewhere, families in from the local theme parks, adults hungry for something on this trip that they had ‘forked out thousands on’ that felt momentarily grown up. To order the wrong thing at the wrong hour was to reveal yourself immediately. Brunch had its time, lunch its own, dinner after that, and anyone who crossed those boundaries did so loudly, whether they meant to or not.

The room itself was tight and noisy, tables pressed close together, staff moving quickly, voices rising just enough to be heard over one another. Conversation was difficult, but visibility was not. Being there mattered more than being comfortable. To be seen waiting outside, to be seen inside, to be seen knowing what to order, all of it counted. Comfort was a performance. The queue did as much work as the food. It announced demand, suggested value, and drew a line between those who belonged and those who did not.

The rules were never stated outright, but everyone seemed to know them.

The locals liked to think of themselves as open, progressive, the sort of people who valued art and education and good conversation, and yet their attention sharpened all the same. Ears lifted at the sound of Spanish. Eyes lingered a second too long on a Black family they did not recognise. It wasn’t hostility, not exactly. More a quiet accounting, a way of taking stock, of knowing what kind of day it was at Briar Row, and in Winter Park more generally. How they felt about that information was up to them, but there was always a method for telling who was from here and who was merely passing through.

She had never gone inside Briar Row itself; that much was clear long before it ever needed saying. She stood instead at the back of the line, close enough to the entrance to be aware of it, far enough away that nothing was expected of her yet. She always knew the time without checking it — just after three — as it always was when she arrived, and she watched how people responded as time moved on: how they glanced at their watches so she didn’t need to glance at hers, how they shifted their feet, how the line thinned in small but deliberate movements.

She had seen it happen often enough. Four o’clock approaching, then slipping past.

Four-oh-one.

Four-oh-two.

Older couples deciding they did not want to be seen eating at that hour, not quite lunch, but still not yet dinner. Families reassessing plans they’d already made, calculating the fullness of their children, timing it with later dinner party appearances. One by one, people peeled away, some relieved to have found an excuse, and the line adjusted itself accordingly.

She stayed where she was. She knew how much time she had, how close she was getting. Three-fifteen was early enough to be uncommitted, but late enough to feel intentional. From there she could see the outdoor tables when she lifted her head, the entrance when she leaned slightly to one side. She could tell who had arrived recently and who had been waiting longer. She felt the space open behind her, the line thinning ahead, the staff moving quickly, calling names, guiding people forward. Conversations rising and falling around her, detached from one another, all of which she let pass through her without much urgency until the right one arrived, standing still, hands idle, time loosening its grip.

Once, however, she had almost been rumbled.

The hostess had seen her there a few too many times, queueing, then leaving, checking her watch, walking off in a small, performative huff. Nothing remarkable on its own, but repetition made the choice visible. The hostess approached her, took her gently by the sleeve of her blouse, and said, tightly, that they could get her a table if she needed one.

Her body tensed. For a moment she didn’t know what to do. She thought of her husband noticing the bill. She thought of what she could afford and what she could not, of the prices she had by now memorised. She imagined stepping inside, the sheer thrill of it, sitting quietly, ordering only water, listening from the other side of the glass, making a hurried excuse, leaving, and then not returning. The problem was that then she truly could not return, not ever again. It would be too loud and noticeable an appearance.

So instead, she did nothing. She stiffened, held her composure, and looked past the young hostess toward the head of the queue, her lip curled just enough. Not refusal, exactly, something closer to offence. As though being pulled out and seated as a kindness would have been a misunderstanding. One of those secret laws no one ever stated but everybody seemed to know, one that she had, in that moment, just made up. One that she did not realise, had somehow become part of the mythology of the restaurant all the same, another unspoken rule people did not realise had never really been true.

She had woven herself into the fabric of Briar Row.
You were never to skip the queue.

No favours. No insider deals. To wait became part of the order. That was how so many of the rules around Briar Row were formed: someone made a choice, and others felt it necessary to make the same one.

The hostess withdrew. After that, they did not approach her again in the future. Perhaps they assumed they kept catching her at the wrong time, that she came in later for dinner, or earlier with her children.

The truth was, as stated, she had never gone inside Briar Row itself. She didn’t need to. What she did was much harder to name.

She stood.
She waited.

She stood and waited, and noticed what waiting made available to her.

She was a customer of sorts, just not of anything on Briar Row’s menu. This queue, compared to other queues, offered a different kind of product altogether. It drew a very specific kind of person, from a specific kind of place, with a specific kind of access. And while they waited — while she waited — they spoke differently. Not to her, and not to one another, but outward, as if language itself were the point.

Sentences trailed. Opinions surfaced, often without being tested. Complaints arrived more fully formed than they might have elsewhere. She learned quickly, standing there, which voices would finish a thought and which would abandon it halfway through. She could tell who was firmer in their thinking, and who folded at the slightest resistance. Whose convictions lived comfortably in the mouth, but not in their body.

Had they known what her presence was there for, they might have reached for other words than customer or queuer.

Intruder, perhaps.
Interloper, even.

And so standing in the line required a kind of discipline, a particular stillness, a careful restraint, an understanding of how and when to disappear. She did not think of what she was doing as listening. She would never have allowed herself to be described as an eavesdropper. It felt closer to standing still long enough for other people to forget she was there at all.

This was a habit that formed and shifted over time. At first, it was something she cracked a smile at as she made her way past. ‘The Dalton’ had not always been serviced in the way it was now. There was no bus that landed less than a minute from the entrance back then. She had to walk instead, up the busy streets, through the tourists and the locals, past the bookstore she would sometimes pause to look into, and then finally on to work.

And so, more than once, she passed Briar Row as the line wound out of the building, through the outdoor seating, along the pavement, blocking shop entrances as people slipped in and out around it. As she passed, she caught fragments of conversation. Sometimes they were innocuous. Sometimes they made her smile or crease her brow. Occasionally, she noticed a reason, not an urge, to turn around, to ask a question, to interrupt. The destination pulling her forward allowed her a reason to never truly pay the reason much attention.

The most she would allow her focus to linger was on people’s clothes, the outfits they wore, the way they had put themselves together. She couldn’t help but compare the materials with her own: the weight of a jacket, the fall of a dress, the confidence of fabric that did not apologise for itself. She told herself she was noticing quality, not wanting it. She told herself that this was discernment, not desire. Though it didn’t help the illusion, that when she liked something her eye so often slipped past the clothes to the person beneath them.

Deciding something of the wearer came more easily than admitting something of what was worn ever could.

She measured these things quickly, almost without thinking, and just as quickly translated any remnant of wanting into judgement. She noticed what she would not have chosen, what she would have done differently. When children passed, she found herself doing the same, taking stock of how they had been put together by their parents, and briefly, unavoidably, comparing it to how she had sent her own out the door that morning. The choices she disagreed with stayed with her longest. The good ones she stored quietly, without praise, filed away for later use. She had become very good at that. At recognising something these people do that’s worth having without ever letting it feel like admiration.

It was only later in her time at the hotel, one afternoon after a particularly heavy shift, when she was tired enough to drag her heels, that she found herself slowing, deliberately. The morning had stayed with her a little longer than usual: the heat, the complaints, the small humiliations of being both needed and unseen. As she approached the street, the conversations drifted toward her again, and one of them lingered just long enough for her to stop.

Standing there felt strange at first. She knew she didn’t need to stop. She was aware of the press of time, of the expectation that she would keep moving. But she stood anyway. She was doing several things at once, allowing herself to pause while already rehearsing her departure, confused by the desire to stay, and yet, for the first time, letting a conversation land fully in her ear.

The feeling that followed, a mix of intrigue and shame, and a thin, almost involuntary judgement, was difficult to place, but much harder to shake.

“We’re trying not to rush them,” one of the men said. “You know. Give them space.”

“That’s probably right,” the other said. “Especially now.”

“Mm.”

“I just think,” the second continued, “if they know where they’re from, if they’ve got support, there’s no need to push. They’ll work it out.”

“Well,” the first said, “as long as they land somewhere sensible.”

“Right. Of course.”

Even from the back of the line, she could see the second man shift his weight, straighten his jacket though it didn’t need it.

The first, barely pausing, went on. “You’ve got to remember there’s a difference. A real difference—oh, Mark.”

He lifted his voice. “Mark. Over here.”

Both men raised a hand — The first man briefly and with just two fingers; the other more fully, arm up, palm out.

Then, without quite returning to the thought, “There’s a difference between letting them drift and making sure they land.”

“yes, you’re so right”

The first leaned in slightly. “Honestly, Mark’s changed a lot.”

“You’re not the first to notice,” the other said.

And then, as if retrieving something that had been set down, but not finished, the first man said “You just have to keep that in mind with your own.”

And then the line shifted forward. Two different men, young professionals, stepped out, complaining that four o’clock was neither one thing nor the other, speaking in a manner they had learned from their fathers but not yet fully understood. They walked back up the street past her without looking, still talking as they went.

She let them pass, allowing their movement to peel her gently away from the queue, like a current. She kept her eyes on the space they’d left behind, now occupied by the two she had been so fixated on just a moment ago, feeling a sudden, unexpected pull toward it, something close to intoxication. She pressed her tongue to the inside of her cheek, resisting the urge to smile, or to bite her lip, remembering herself just in time.

Later that afternoon, on the way home, she called her mother and said she’d been asked to stay on for a much later shift. A lie. One that meant her children would be left there, and she could return to the house while it was still quiet, alone, and wait at the table in the back room by the kitchen with a single light on, long into the night.

Once her husband returned and she was done with him, they lay awake for a brief moment, staring at the ceiling, emptied and alert all at once. As he stood for a cigarette, she thought about telling him what had passed through her that day, the permission it had given her, and the way she had chosen not to question it. She decided however it was better to make use of the time she had taken for them, the rare, unclaimed quiet of the house.

She stood, took the cigarette from his lips, put it out on the windowsill, and before he could register the mark it left behind, she pulled him back to bed. She kept the day for herself, let the moment remain intact but gave him the evening.

The next time she arrived at Briar Row, she knew immediately that she had misjudged her timing.

The line was shorter than she expected. It wasn’t absent, just thin. The kind that required intention simply to stand there. People were closer together now. Pauses in conversation felt less like rests and more like invitations.

She felt…

-felt.

She slowed and didn’t stop. She walked past the entrance, pretending she had somewhere else to be, and felt the peculiar pressure of being seen moving away from something she had not yet joined.

Over time, weeks, then months, she learned to double back unassumingly. It became a kind of rehearsal. Once, then again. She stole a few conversations here and there. Each time, the line shifted slightly, but never quite enough. What first looked like randomness revealed itself as something closer to pattern, though it demanded a particular attentiveness, a kind of fieldwork. Her walks were never dithering.

She learnt how to know it. A kind of atmosphere, a type of weather, the pressure drop that comes before rain. The danger of being offered a table. The sudden obligation of choice. The price of being mistaken for someone who could afford to say yes.

It took time, a quiet mental note-taking, until she finally settled on 3:15.

Late enough to catch the soft exodus, the couples unwilling to be seen eating too close to dinner, but early enough to remain uncommitted. Early enough to be present. Late enough to be plausible.

It was not incidental.

3:15 became a marker. An anchor. If she finished work too early or too late, if she couldn’t justify the extra looping past bookshops and vintage stores and places selling things no one really needed, tchotchkes and others, she would move on.

3:15 made the decision for her.

What she didn’t yet name, though she had begun to sense it, was that her husband’s ease in the evenings had started to fasten itself quietly to these arrivals. Like the dogs in the experiments she half-remembered from her studies, the name of their owner escaping her now. There were nights she came home from the 3:15 queue carrying a kind of silent bell with her. Something she never consciously struck, but whose ringing he had begun to hear as invitation. It brought with it a looseness, an attention, a readiness that had not been present for some time, and it woke him up to her again.

When he occasionally looked confused, when something given freely and enthusiastically one night seemed absent the next, she felt a brief flicker of guilt. A sense that she ought to explain where this closeness was coming from, what it had attached itself to.

But where he felt randomness, she had order. And the truth was, whatever was moving between them had not felt this near in weeks. Months. Years, even. Briar Row had already taught her something important about timing, about when to arrive, and when to let a thing remain unnamed.

The days she arrived at Briar Row were never really routine.

That wasn’t to say of course there was no pattern to them, only that it wasn’t a clear one. She never knew in advance when she would stop and when she would pass by. The decision didn’t announce itself that far ahead, it arrived, more often than not, on the day.

She could usually feel it midway through her shift, in the tension of her shoulders, in the ache that settled into her lower back. In the texture of the complaints, whether they were sharp or merely habitual. By then, she often knew whether she would stop, or whether she would dawdle past, peering in only long enough to steal a word here or there.

Even that wasn’t consistent.

Some days were good and required nothing whilst other good days asked for indulgence.

Some bad days sent her toward the line in search of relief; others pushed her past it, quickened and closed.

It became part of her awareness, a decision made somewhere below the language centre of her brain, whether or not a visit was required, or not.

At some point, she couldn’t say when, she began the habit of writing things down. Not properly. Not in any way that resembled a diary; she had no interest in rehashing conversations on the journey home, choosing instead to live in the feeling they gave her, letting the memory come unstuck before it could settle into language. Instead, she reduced each moment to something smaller: a word with a date, a detail just precise enough to draw her back to a face, a conversation, the feeling it had given her.

To open the notebook would have been to be confronted by the musings of a madwoman. There was no code, no visible logic, no narrative thread. Sometimes just a name she didn’t recognise. Sometimes a fragment of an opinion. Sometimes nothing more than a colour, or the weather.

It was enough that she knew what each entry referred to. Enough that the moment could be recalled without needing to be re-lived. Enough that it remained truly unnamed.

That most recently described encounter of the man and his friend had been labelled,

• May 12th
  Mark runs away.
  Ugly shoes.
  Recoiled at eagerness.

Her life, past, present, and now the future, was governed by a series of sensations, not schedules. It would never be known to anyone else, and it was unlikely to be shared. Later in life, she would think of this, of wishing she had passed it on, this practice, this private calibration, to some kin, or perhaps a friend.

The same skill she had developed to stand in a queue without being noticed followed her into the way she wrote things down, not just in what she chose to record, but in how she kept the act itself from becoming anything that might draw attention. An important point, was never to treat it as a secret. This was not a notebook that announced itself. It was small, unassuming, and ultimately meaningless to anyone else. It was often left in plain sight, which was its own kind of camouflage.

Her love had seen it, of course. He had watched her slip it from her bag at the kitchen table, jot something down, close it again, dates, single words, nothing that invited questions. He didn’t assume much of it. If he did, to him it was practical: reminders, lists, something to do with work, or perhaps something looser, a colour from her day. He never felt the need to ask. He trusted that if there were something urgent enough to be shared, she would share it. His calm made room for that assumption.

Sometimes he would leaf through it absentmindedly when it sat by the counter, realise what it was, and put it back where he’d found it. There was never anything to hold on to. No story. No confession. Nothing that suggested it belonged to him, or to their marriage, or to anything that required response. Whatever she was doing in there remained hers.

Later, much later, she would recognise this as another kind of agreement between them. Not a spoken one. Just another way they learned how to leave one another alone.

When the two finally did split, it wasn’t a marriage that ended from neglect, as one might have expected after years of inattention, but from exhaustion. What sat between them was the residue of too much effort, applied too late, when everything had already begun to give way. The space they left behind was scored by hands that had held on far too long, by attempts to stay that had done as much damage as leaving ever could.

It was her second husband — practical and well-meaning — who took more notice of the note-taking. Not because he was especially curious, but because of the kind of life he led and the one they shared. He was the kind of man that paid attention to the things that sat in place for a long time.

As a much younger man, he had moved through it collecting the symbols of adulthood rather than living them: the car, the mortgage, the children. He mistook this sequence for a kind of substance. The truth was, he remained quietly immature at heart. Not silly, just underdeveloped, comforted by order and soothed by progression. He cared more that things stayed where they were meant to stay than what they meant once they were there.

You might think a man like this would be cruel. He wasn’t. He was just small.
Smaller than her.

And so he kept notes of his own. One of which had been to arrange a burial plot long before there was any reason to. Another was to make sure that when the time came, she would be buried alongside him with a few pieces of jewellery, small objects she had always kept close and of course the notebook.

When he told her this, before she had even a moment to pause or balk at the idea of an eternal resting space so early in life — the fact that he had understood the notebook mattered to her gave her a quiet warmth. It was enough for the arrangement to make sense at the time, and never again be revisited.

She asked him to go and see the space. There was room for the two of them, set aside neatly, and, by no deliberate choice at all, a third space on the other side. An allowance for symmetry. For future-proofing.

There was never a discussion about who would take that place. There didn’t need to be. The understanding existed quietly because of a request she had made long before, at the wedding to this second husband — inappropriate perhaps, but honoured all the same. She had pulled the first aside, in earshot of the second and spoken without ceremony, without drama, and asked that if it ever came to it, his calm might manage her through death as it had through life.

Such an exchange might have unsettled another man, but with her second, being practical and well-meaning, it did not. She had made clear from the beginning that love, to her, had become a dwindling currency. What she once had in that regard had already been given away and spent. She was not looking to replace it, nor to earn more, nor to offer it to him.

She had moved through the violence of passion, the clawing need to be known, the damage that came from wanting too much all at once, and she was uninterested in repeating it. What she offered him instead was a kind of deal: a life. Warm and attentive. Something they could move through together until they fell asleep and woke again. She would prioritise him. Make sure he felt chosen. She had no desire for other partners. But she was not there to offer love again, not in the way people liked to mean it. Her account was empty, and she did not pretend otherwise.

She found herself settling, quite happily, on the idea of settling.

As one could imagine this suited him. Life affixed into position. The house. The friendships. Romances. A view of the remaining future. Arranged in a way one arranges furniture, so that a life might read as complete. The right objects sitting in the right places — the chair, the sofa, the television, the framed photographs — until the room became legible as a living room. He wanted his life to share the same clarity, adulthood’s twilight rendered as growth, stability, age, and someone to be buried next to.

And so he accepted her terms more quickly than she had expected and without protest. He did not bristle or negotiate. He was old enough by then, and had seen enough, and loved enough, not to care whether something carried any particular magic. Only that it held together, firmly in place.

And so her note-taking, her secret at Briar Row, remained safe within this arrangement. It was held there, secured by the same unspoken agreements that governed the rest of their life. The only moment she feared it might come undone arrived through his sole refusal, which came eventually because of the way they engaged in touch rather than words.

At first, all was well. A particular pressure at the hollow of her collarbone. A way of holding her hips that anchored her in place. He learned early which gestures quieted her, which ones made her close her eyes and leave herself. She would guide his hands there without speaking, and he understood enough not to ask why.

At some point, and he could never quite say when, it became clear to him that these were not inventions of his own. They were recognitions. Familiar shapes her body already knew. What he offered was not originality, but willingness. He did not mind that what satisfied her had been learned elsewhere. He took a certain comfort in knowing the work had already been done, that all he needed to do was repeat it carefully, faithfully, without demanding credit.

And then one evening, half-asleep and unguarded, she let an old name surface. Softly. Without intention. It landed between them without drama, without accusation, but it was enough. Something in him tightened then, not with anger, but with awareness. The illusion, thin as it had been, could no longer be maintained.

The following morning there was a brief moment, hardly more than a flicker, when her first love’s name still hovered between them. As she reached into her bag and pulled the notebook free, she felt his eyes cut to it. To her hand. Then up to her face, catching her gaze just as she began to slide it back inside.

She hesitated.

For a second she considered leaving it seen, letting whatever this was finally expose itself. But just as quickly his eyes softened. His head settled. It was as if he understood that to look too closely now would bring the entire arrangement down around him, and that what remained now, at their age, would be to preserve the eventual dirt between them.

After that, there were things he would no longer do. Not out of punishment. Not even out of pride. He simply could not offer himself as a stand-in once he knew precisely who he was standing in for. He did not name this refusal, and neither did she. It was simply another small adjustment. Another boundary was quietly installed. He remained kind. He remained present. But from then on, his love learned where it ended.

He passed shortly after her and lay on her left.

A few years later, the other arrived, buried on her right.

An odd threesome, she beneath a patch of grass chosen by the practical, held in place between him and her old calm.

Those who came to lay flowers for any of the three knew nothing of Briar Row. Or rather, they may have known the name, but not its meaning. They did not know the hours she had stood there, or what it had taught her about living, and finally, about rest.

Buried with her, as her second husband had promised, were the pieces she had kept close: the jewellery, the small knick-knacks, and the notebook. There were no explanations inside it. No sentences. Only dates, fragments, names, hours, words without obvious connection.

If you were to pull her from the earth, loosen the notebook from her hands, open it at random and stay there long enough, she could have taken you back. Once you made it past the creased and dulled cover, the pages that followed were not only records of other people so much as measures of herself. The ease, certainty, and casualness with which lives were described, what she heard and saw, moved inward. These moments sharpened something in her, sometimes into judgment, sometimes into longing, sometimes into a recognition she would not have named as either. What she carried away from the queue was never simply about the people in it. It was about how their words rearranged her interior life, how listening gave her a way to stand inside herself more clearly, if only for a moment.

One of the pages, about halfway through, was date-headed but otherwise unmarked, save for a small note recording a group of women. It was not unusual for her to see women at Briar Row; they appeared more often than men in the book. Not because men failed to interest her, or intrigued or regarded themselves as notable, and not because women held any special pull.

It was simply that women arrived at Briar Row already carrying themselves in ways that could be read from afar as she approached.

They came somewhat arranged.

Their bodies held decisions on the surface: the purpose of the gathering, whether they even planned to eat, how much of themselves they intended to reveal to one another, how much they would choose to protect, and how loudly they planned to take up space.

Men, she had learned, tended to speak first and show themselves later. This matched the way they arrived in the queue at all, often spontaneously, as if finding themselves there rather than having planned to be. Men rarely intended to come to Briar Row unless the decision had been made for them. They arrived with time to spare and things that needed to be said sparingly. Conversation, for them, was a way of locating themselves once they had already arrived. Women arrived at Briar Row with an attempt to make themselves visible before a word was even said.

With this in mind, it was clear to her that these women that had pricked her ear were young, and that they knew one another well, and that within the safety of that naïveté they arrived loose, already being lightly shaped by the community around them in ways they could not yet see, but still actively engaged in the futile work of believing they could form themselves. And so, within that effort, words between them came fluidly.

Good luck to them, she thought. They’d find out the truth of their lives soon enough.

The four of them stood a few places ahead of her in line, close enough to register without requiring attention. One wore a light dress printed with sunflowers, as she would be known. The fabric moved when she laughed. Another wore denim cut too short to be practical, frayed at the hem as if deliberately unfinished; her bare ankles she made note of. On the third she couldn’t help but enjoy the look of her white blouse, already losing its shape in the heat, the sleeves rolled without care. The last carried a small leather bag tucked beneath her right arm, as though she had not yet learned how to let it hang without discomfort.

They stood with an ease that bordered on carelessness, weight shifting easily from foot to foot. No one seemed concerned with being overheard. Their voices rose and fell in overlapping arcs, sentences brushing against one another without any real need to land. It was a collaborative form of storytelling.

She noticed how little they adjusted themselves, no scanning of faces behind them, no lowering of tone when a thought drifted wider than intended. These, she realised, were regulars. They occupied the space as if it had been waiting for them, because it often had.

From the back of the line, she let the details settle. Not the whole of them. Just enough.

Sunflower. Ankles. Blouse. Leather bag.

She kept these markers carefully, knowing they would matter once the talking began. What they said however, was not remarkable.

“I think I’m just… done with it,” Sunflower said.

“Already?” Blouse asked.

“Yeah. I mean, I liked it. I just don’t want to do it anymore.”

“That’s fair.”

“Didn’t you fight really hard to get it?” Ankles said.

Sunflower shrugged. “I did. But I don’t feel like that should mean I have to keep it.”

“Honestly,” Leather Bag said, “I think that’s really healthy.”

“Right?” Sunflower said. “Like, I don’t want to become someone who stays just because she stayed yesterday.”

There was a smattering of agreement. Some of it arrived a beat too late.

“My mum’s furious,” Sunflower added, not unkindly. “She keeps asking what the plan is.”

“Do you have one?”

“Not really.”

A pause.

“That’s kind of the point,” Sunflower said.

This time, the agreement came quickly.

From behind them, the woman felt something tighten. She told herself it was a muscle. A strain of some kind.

These moments came often in the queue. Moments where she had to work quickly to avoid naming what rose first, judgment, envy. She shut down the comparison almost as soon as it appeared: the sense that their ability to come and go from things they had worked hard for reflected a luxury she had never been afforded. To treat uncertainty as neutral.

She had once believed that staying was a virtue. That endurance in an endeavour was evidence of depth. Now she recognised how carefully she had moralised her fear, how she had dressed worry just casually enough to pass for discernment.

These were small lies. Useful ones. When she told them to herself, she did not write them down. She didn’t need to. They would help her attempt to leave ‘the Dalton’ a few months after this — attempt being the operative word — the truth beneath them sharpening quick enough to keep her in a newer role that was, in essence, not so different from the one she already held.

Later, when she opened the notebook, or when someone glanced at it by chance, there would be only a date and a word she could not quite explain.

That would be enough. Enough to bring her back to the edge. Enough to notice, too late, that the safety net below had already been claimed. Leaving no room to leap

She returned to this thought in the long hours of summer, when leaving no longer felt available to her in the way it had to Sunflower dress. They had what she did not. True luxury. The privilege of being allowed to be foolhardy.

Over time, her thoughts learned to remodel themselves. Neither jealousy nor the sustained awareness of what she did not have was bearable, and so she found another posture, learned how to smile, how to reconcile what she heard without letting it settle too deeply. The easiest way to do this of course, was dismissal.

‘Silly little girls’, she would tell herself.

In memory, the scene softened and rearranged itself. The sunflower dress appeared juvenile rather than free. The leather bag, she decided, belonged to the girl’s mother — a rehearsal of adulthood rather than the thing itself. The repositioning worked: cruel in their direction, merciful in hers. A quiet narrowing that diminished them while making room for her.

Truthfully, she fared better on the rarer days when she did not attend to women at all. They asked too much of her. They pressed too closely against what she had learned to hold still. Men, by contrast, offered distance. They could be compared safely — to her father, who had remained physically present until his death but had, in every other way, departed long before; to her husband; to men at work; to men she passed through without consequence.

This became another method. Another way of being there. On certain days she would find herself listening for them in the line, allowing their voices to settle without injury, without the slow compression of self that came from standing too near to lives that forced her to face her own. And because listening to them felt safer, she listened more closely.

That was the mistake.

Without quite noticing, she began to sort men. To interpret. To supply subtext where none had been asked for.

Affection as upkeep.
Desire reduced to obligation.
Intimacy reframed as management.

She told herself she was being perceptive. That this was insight, not bitterness. In truth, she was recognising a familiarity.

Later, she would remember only the ends of conversations, not their beginnings. The kind that drifted past without ceremony.

Are you still happy, though?
Yeah. Of course.

Words like of course, she learned, often did a great deal of work.

She felt no tightening then. No heat. Nothing she needed to misname. Only later would she recognise what had shifted — the way those words lodged slowly, like the pressure of a blade easing between her ribs. She would not remember the conversations themselves, only the ease of them. The way they slipped under her skin without leaving a mark. The way they taught her she had mistaken steadiness for safety.

She did not recognise this listening — this sorting — as rehearsal. Only that it gave her a language she would later borrow. First to leave her husband. And later, when she met her second, a way to mistake regularity for care, and spontaneity for threat — shaped here, in a line she never joined and conversations she never entered.

This was how time at Briar Row worked on her: not as revelation, but as accumulation. A series of overheard lives that wore gently at her own, loosening what no longer fit. She would not understand the queue as a kind of shedding until much later, a place where old skins thinned quietly, through listening.

The problem, of course, was that the shedding was not done in the way people usually mean it. Not something sloughed off in order to grow, but something cut away so that she might remain hardened. Each overheard life took a thin layer with it, not to expose her, but to protect what remained. In that sense, the queue did not change her life in any obvious way. It did not free her, or soften her, or teach her how to want differently. It became instead a place of controlled abrasion, where she learned how to dull sensation without going numb, how to let parts of herself wear down until what was left could withstand daily use.

Where it might have offered another person a language for themselves, she learned instead how to sharpen her language against others. A type of armour endured where understanding should have been. And so each night she went to sleep with the quiet satisfaction of having grasped something, knowing she would wake laughing. The sad, quiet truth was that she had long since lost the ability to tell whether she was laughing at the people in the queue, or at herself standing among them.

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