She has the key cut on a Tuesday, which feels like a day for practical betrayals. The man at the stall asks if it is for a neighbour. She says it is for herself, which is true in a way she does not unpack. At home she lays both keys on the table. One is bright at the teeth. One has the smooth wear of a year of locks. She will leave the flat on Friday. The new tenant has asked, politely, for a spare, and she has said yes, and now she cannot tell which key is the one she is allowed to keep. In the end she posts the bright one and keeps the worn one in a drawer with rubber bands, where it will make a small, guilty, accurate sound whenever she looks for string.#
This is an excerpt. The complete piece is in the print and digital edition of Issue 04.