I smiled and found myself wondering just how many friends she had, and what they would think of me. I expected to meet them, at some point, I realized then.

'You're one of the only people who saw the double meaning in it,' she said. 'You saw what my intention was.'

'Oh sorry,' I said, T should have just gone with my first impressions, I guess.'

'Don't be sorry,' she replied. 'I like that you saw right through to what I was trying to achieve. You didn't just see the photo, you saw me too.'

Her expression became more serious and when our eyes locked the intensity was too much and I turned quickly back to the photograph, my throat tight, and unsure what to say anyway. I wouldn't have trusted any words at that moment.

'I can show you more of my photos later, if you want.' Her tone was dismissive, but I knew she was keener than that.

'That'd be fantastic,' I replied as casually as I could manage. I wasn't really seeing the photograph at all now, though I still stared at it. I was only aware of her, feeling her proximity as she stood close to me.

'But now, coffee?' she asked, more matter of fact than I felt, moving away from me slightly.

'Er, yes, please,' I said, pulling my gaze away from the photograph but not quite able to look at her.

'Milk and sugar?'

'Just milk, thanks.'

'You can come through, or take a seat here, up to you,' she told me. Not wanting to be apart from her, and not trusting my thoughts if I waited for her alone, I followed her through the doorway to her kitchen, where a window faced her small back garden, and there was a wooden door to access it. The house was really quite tiny, but the kitchen, with its pine units, seemed almost spacious.

I sat at the round table in the middle and watched as she filled the kettle and reached into a cupboard to find two mugs. As she stretched up, her shirt and tee rose with her arms, and I glimpsed the flesh of her back, smooth and quite pale. I looked away, uncomfortably aware that my hands were growing hot. I found a heady feeling of suspense pressing on me, as the silence between us grew. Even before I'd realized it, my eyes were back on her. I watched the movement of her fingers as she unscrewed the lid of the coffee jar and spooned coffee into the mugs. She paused and pulled at her loose shirt sleeves, revealing the skin of her forearms and that familiar cluster of bangles which jangled with every movement. I looked to her other unadorned wrist, noticing she wore no wristwatch, and was oddly fascinated for a moment by the structure of the bones where they were visible beneath the slightly tanned skin. My gaze slid over her hand to her fingers as she secured the lid of the coffee. The veins in the back of her hand were blue and close to the surface, as if she was warm and her body attempting to cool itself. Those hands looked so strong, so capable. I pulled my focus away from her to the surface of the table and drew a deep breath, trying to dispel feelings that were quite clearly out of all proportion. But they wouldn't be banished, and I couldn't help but look at her again as, with a rattle of bracelets, she reached up and pushed at a stray hair.

My eyes lingered on the back of her neck, watching the slight rise and fall of her square shoulders with her breathing, which struck me as a little labored. She did not turn to face me even when she had finished with the coffee cups, and I could not help but think she was hiding her expression from me, conscious that I was watching her. I knew, for both our sakes, I should break the silence between us, which by now felt as though it had stretched eternally, but I could think of nothing to say. She leaned on the kitchen counter; her stance appeared awkward, different from her usual relaxed pose. She drummed her fingers as though impatient, as the kettle began to hiss and gurgle, the water approaching boiling point.

She turned abruptly and I felt myself blush, as though she had caught me in the act of doing something illicit. I was almost frightened of what she might say. She looked at me and smiled slightly. I noticed her cheeks were colored too, and her gaze was less direct than I had become used to.

'You said just milk, right?' she said, as though it was an effort to say anything at all.

'Yes,' I replied. The tension between us was undeniable, and in our inability to say more than these simple phrases we both acknowledged it. She looked away from me and crossed the kitchen to fetch the milk from the fridge. She did not look at me again as she turned back to the empty mugs. Blue jeans looked damn good on her, I reflected. She adjusted her shirt sleeves again, as though she was uncomfortable, as the kettle boiled in a cloud of steam.

To ease the tension that threatened to suffocate me, I gripped my hot hands together and forced myself to look around me, away from her. Behind me was a door which clearly led to the stairway. Beside it hung another photograph, this time simply a close-up of an eye, the iris deep brown, with an indistinct reflection at the centre of it, which seemed to be something and yet nothing at all. It had a similar unnerving quality to the other photograph. I wondered if all of her photographs had that same indefinite edge to them. It was fitting, I decided, since Aly herself defied any attempts at precise definition.

I was contemplating this when suddenly she was beside me and I almost jumped to find her so close. She put a mug of steaming coffee on the table in front of me. I thanked her in a barely audible murmur, as she placed her own beside it, and flicked on the radio quietly.

'You don't mind do you?' she asked. 'I always have the radio on when I'm in the kitchen.' In her words I sensed a renewed effort to dispel the tension that had arisen between us, and, hearing that casual tone I had become accustomed to, I found I was able to turn my attention back to her without too much difficulty.

'No. I like to have music all the time too,' I assured her, forcing myself to speak more than one or two words and, in doing so, growing more relaxed myself. I was only sharing a cup of coffee with her in her kitchen after all. For God's sake, what was wrong with me?

She came to sit opposite me and wrapped her fingers loosely around her mug of black coffee. 'So, why was yesterday eventful then?' she asked.

'Long story,' I answered, rolling my eyes.

'The creepy guy came back?'

'Yes, he did.' I remembered the way she had tensed at that information earlier and studied her reaction for any sign of tightening, resolving to explain right away that I had no interest in Owen whatsoever, if she appeared dubious at all. However, she was merely looking back at me, waiting for an explanation, her expression casually interested. 'But that wasn't the first thing that happened,' I said, deciding to start the story from the beginning and thus make Owen a less significant part of it. I told her about the incident in the storeroom, even including how frightened I had been, and the mysterious pain I'd felt. 'You know,' I said, as I concluded the tale, 'if what we were saying before is right, and time is, well, layered on top of itself, then I'd say someone, in some time, is very unhappy.' I'd pondered this earlier, and dismissed it as illogical rubbish. Spurred on by her apparent interest, I wondered what Aly thought about it.

'That's not really surprising, since you're in a prison,' she reflected.

Then she grinned. 'Hey, maybe you're psychic or something, and you can sense these things, you know like the guy on telly.'